


I've Got You Under My Skin

by DaringlyDomestic



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Date Rape Drug, Dubious Consent, Friends to Lovers, John and Sherlock have a good relationship tho, M/M, Mentions of past drug abuse, Past Sexual Assault, Poison, Sexual Assault, The Bad Stuff is not between John and Sherlock, abusive dynamics, case related sexual assault, case-related murder, case-related violence, mentions of rophenol
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-15
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-06-27 09:58:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 31,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15683103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaringlyDomestic/pseuds/DaringlyDomestic
Summary: Sherlock has a secret. John has his orders. They have a case.An open-and-shut assault case takes a turn, pulling John and Sherlock into the seedy belly of the criminal underworld. A new drug that alters the mind and the body is being wielded as a devastating neurochemical weapon against unsuspecting Londoners. In a case that hits a little too close to home, Sherlock is forced to confront the demons of his past. He has worked hard to create the life he has now, but will his secrets destroy everything he has built?Please do not redistribute my fanfiction on other sites without my express permission. Thank you!





	1. Shattered Like Glass

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there, Reader!
> 
> A few things to keep in mind:
> 
> 1\. This is an AU. It is not canon-compliant.  
> 2\. I have, in the past, been dubbed The Angst Queen. Please know that I write a lot of angst but there is usually a happy ending. This fic will live in their dark places for a the majority of the story. If that is not your jam - get off the ride now.  
> 3\. I do my best to tag and warn effectively, but I may not always anticipate everyone's triggers. Please let me know if you have a specific concern before reading and I'll do my best to let you know.
> 
> That's all for now. Read on, Be Kind, and Uplift One Another.
> 
> XO,  
> DD

“I wish you wouldn’t,” John said with a sigh.

Sherlock, too busy flicking chemical compounds of his own design into the fire, hadn’t deigned to reply. John watched as the flames turned green – _flick_ – red – _flick_ \- blue. Assuming that he wasn’t going to get an answer, he folded the dishtowel in his hands and turned back to the sink.

“If we have to replace the flue again, Mrs. Hudson really will take it out of our rent.” John had been baiting the detective, and Sherlock knew it. He tossed the last of the compounds into the fire, watched it glow purple, then threw himself onto the sofa.

“Dull,” Sherlock muttered before steepling his hands under his chin and gazing resolutely at the ceiling. John smiled to himself. The prat really could be an enormous child sometimes. He finished rinsing off the sauce pan, gave it a wipe, and left it on the side to dry off.

John paused and considered his flatmate. He was restless and that was never a good sign. Sherlock had been out the previous night, and John had started a delightful action novel that he’d love to have picked up again. Only, he’d been fairly certain Sherlock would ruin it within minutes. He had that manic energy about him.

Sherlock was stretched across the entire length of the sofa. His toes tucked away underneath John’s Union Jack pillow because Sherlock couldn’t be bothered to grab the throw off the back of the sofa. His index finger rubbed hypnotically against his lower lip as his eyes scanned back and forth through the air. John could always tell when Sherlock was merely sorting information. When the detective went deep in his mind to wrestle with particularly challenging problems, he went still. That had been hard for John to get used to at first. Sherlock - still as death - looking as though he’d just stopped. It still creeped John out sometimes, but at least he knew to expect it now. The sofa groaned as Sherlock fidgeted, trying to get comfortable. He hadn’t gone deep enough to close his eyes or change his respiration, so he was probably not planning on plumbing the inky depths of his mind palace tonight.

Giving up on getting any reading done, John decided a cup of tea would pass the time nicely while he waited for Sherlock to reengage with the world.

He was just stirring sugar into a second cup when Sherlock growled with frustration.

So much for the quiet. That had taken far less time than he’d thought it would. This was going to be a long night.

John carried the tea into the sitting room and left Sherlock’s cup on the side table. Sherlock watched him with a bizarrely calculating expression that made him uneasy. John sank into his arm chair and returned the look, challenging Sherlock with his intentional silence.

The man did not automatically respond. His eyes swept casually from the hair on John’s head to his bare feet. Sherlock’s smile was a sharp, fractured thing. It struck John as wrong, though he couldn’t quite pinpoint the reason why. He sipped his tea and continued to wait for Sherlock to speak. He was certainly not going to provoke the argument his flatmate was so obviously spoiling for.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He had understood that John was not willing to play this game tonight, and he was annoyed.

“Aren’t you going to be late meeting Lestrade?” he asked lazily.

John jumped from his chair. _Shit._ He had completely forgotten that he was supposed to meet Greg for drinks tonight. He grabbed his mobile and pecked out a torturously slow message:

_Been held up. Sorry. Be there soon._

Then, he turned to glare at Sherlock. “Of course you know about my plans, never mind the fact that even I’d forgotten. You could have reminded me, you know.” John’s tone was accusatory but there was no heat in it.

“I’ve been reliably informed that pointing out the failings of others is _a bit not good_ , John,” Sherlock snapped. “Besides, I do have better things to do than manage your social calendar.”

John, who had been hastily zipping his jacket by the door, stopped. He knew it was unfair to have lashed out at Sherlock like that, even if the detective had been trying to provoke him. “Look,” he said, one hand reaching out across the vast expanse of the sitting room. John hastily lowered his arm and clenched his fist at his side. “I’m sorry, alright?”

Sherlock didn’t answer.

“Sherlock?”

Piercing blue-grey eyes swiveled to meet John’s. He could see something swimming behind the look, but it was folded away much too quickly for John to identify it before Sherlock turned his attention back inside his own head.

“It’s fine, John,” he said with a laconic flick of his wrist.

“Right,” John murmured. Knowing he’d been summarily dismissed, John turned and, shoving his keys into his pocket, he left the flat.

 

John checked his watch as he jogged around the corner, The Windsock Arms pub coming into view. He was already thirty minutes late. John could only hope that Greg had been slammed at work and was also running behind. 

There was a low thrum of energy inside, but there were plenty of tables available. After quickly scanning the room and failing to spy Greg, John sat at a table near the bar. By the time John had grabbed drinks, Greg was sliding into his chair.

“Blimey,” Greg said, aggressively massaging his own temples.

John swirled his whiskey, listening to the pleasant chime of ice on glass. “Bad day was it?”

Greg’s eyes had been focused on the table, but he quickly raised them to John. Greg’s elbows rested on the table, and they seemed to be the only thing holding him up. “It’s this bloody case,” he answered with a resigned sigh.

“The hypno-rophenol one?” John asked. “Thought that was a one off?”

“Worst thing to happen to law enforcement in a long time. Mind-altering, fast acting, and quickly metabolized. It’s downright impossible to catch someone in the act, and the victim often can’t recognize it’s happening until the effects wear off. Can’t imagine what the drug companies were going for when they Frankenstein-ed this nightmare.” 

John felt a lurch of pity for the DI, he looked utterly worn out. “Sherlock identified the perp last week. Have you gotten anything out of him?”

Greg took a long swallow and swung his legs up to rest on the empty chair next to John before he answered. “Colin Bleedin’ Monahan. Yeah - too bloody much, actually. He’s giving us so much information, it’s hard to parse the essentials from the nonsense. Apart from the details relating to the assault on Jenny Waterman, it’s all white noise.” 

John nodded in sympathy, wishing he could help but it really was more Sherlock’s area. As if sensing the trail of his thoughts, Greg cleared his throat.

“You know,” he started slowly, “we could really use Sherlock’s help cutting through the clutter here.” Greg smiled grimly into his beer. “Don’t tell him I said so though.”

John chuckled. “You know what he’s like.”

“How is His Nibs?” said Greg with genuine interest.

 “Bored. Frustrated. Eager for a new case. In his mind, he’s solved this one.” John held up a hand to stop the DI, who had opened his mouth to argue.

“He’s not bored enough yet to stoop to building the _legal case_ for you,” John sneered in a passable imitation of the irritable detective.

But his face turned serious when the DI slid a folder out from under his coat.

“I thought you turned the case over to narcotics? Isn’t this more their area now?”

Greg must have sensed the reticence because he started babbling before John could say no.

“I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t desperate. Listen, John,” he leaned in close and lowered his voice so that the other patrons couldn’t overhear. Grisly details tended to disturb the general populace. “He implied that there’s a body count to this operation.”

John squeezed his eyes shut. “How many?” 

“Definitely more than he’s admitting. We think five so far.”

John drew in a haggard breath. Five people – Jesus! “He’s a serial killer then?”

Greg shrugged. “Not sure to be honest. We know there’s been deaths, but it’s not entirely clear that he’s the one calling the shots. You saw him. A university dropout with some trust fund money. No obligations. No motivation. He’s not got the brains or the access to be manufacturing the drugs he used on Waterman.” 

John took the folder from Greg and slipped it into his jacket. If Sherlock was still intent on destroying the flat when he got back, this could be the very distraction he needed. Besides, John couldn’t ignore five dead bodies. He’d hide the violin if that’s what it took to get Sherlock onto this. The sooner he solves it, the better for everyone involved. Interpreting John’s actions correctly, Greg’s whole body relaxed. John hadn’t realized he was so nervous.

“Right, thanks then,” Greg said, swallowing the last of his beer. “Look I’ve got to get back. The paperwork on this case is unbelievable, and I’ve left Donovan in charge. If I don’t get back soon, between her and Anderson, the whole place will likely be in shambles.” He pulled a few wrinkled notes from his wallet. “Drinks on me this time, alright?”

“Ta, Greg,” John replied, already thinking about how to broach the case with Sherlock. “I’ll have him take a look, yeah?” 

The DI looked genuinely relieved, squeezed John’s shoulder, and left. He had his mobile pressed to his ear before he’d even made it out of the pub.

 

John tried not to think too hard about the contents of the folder on his way back to the flat. It had been heinous enough to think of someone like Monahan using hypno-rophenol to get Waterman into bed against her will, but the suggestion that this was happening on a large scale resulting in murders? John shuddered.

He was so absorbed in his thoughts, that he barely noticed himself unlocking the door or climbing the stairs.

He was shocked back to awareness, however, by the sight of Sherlock sitting on a chair in the kitchen with a cotton swab pressed to the crook of his left arm. Though the kitchen was partly in shadow, he could see Sherlock’s bone white face. A dark, livid black vein bulged in his neck, and John was panicking. The contrast of the dark black vein and his overall wan pallor gave Sherlock a grotesque monstrous look. Like something out of one of John’s nightmares.

A flicker of movement off to the right had John moving before he registered the familiar build. 

Bill Wiggins was depositing a needle in the sharps container he had evidently brought with him. John knew for a fact they didn’t have one in the flat. It had been the source of one of their biggest arguments. Sherlock had wanted one around due to the unpredictable nature of his experiments. John had outright forbidden it due to Sherlock’s history of drug abuse. He didn’t really know all the details, but he knew enough to know that Sherlock did not need that kind of temptation in the flat.   

Neither man seemed forthcoming. He looked around the room as if seeing it for the first time, hoping he was missing an obvious explanation. It was mostly the same as he had left it. He did notice that Sherlock had raked the fireplace. He’d never admit he’d done it, but Sherlock knew Mrs. Hudson had a hard time getting back up after doing so. She did have a bad hip after all.

“I should be going,” said Wiggins, shattering the silence. “Two weeks, Shezza,” he muttered cryptically. He quickly gathered his things and all but ran out of the flat. He managed a contrite grimace at John on his way out. 

John turned to the detective with a pleading look. “Explain,” he said simply. He knew Sherlock would read all the needy plaintive questions he could not bring himself to ask. More than anything, John wanted this not to be drugs. He knew Sherlock had been restless all evening, but he hadn’t thought the man had been anywhere close to this. And if he had been, why had he gone to Wiggins? Didn’t he trust John?

Sherlock looked intently at him, sizing him up. “Would you like to sit?” he asked, gesturing at the chair across the table. John planted his feet and crossed his arms. He wasn’t going anywhere until Sherlock explained.

The detective sighed and scrubbed a hand through his curls. “I imagine your first thought was cocaine, given the placement of the injection.” John flinched at the clinical detachment in Sherlock’s voice. “It’s an understandable mistake given that you are operating without all the facts.”

“What are the facts,” John demanded, angry at the charade of normalcy.

“Look at me, John. Really look at me. Do I look like I’ve just injected cocaine into my bloodstream? Are my pupils dilated? Is my heartrate elevated? Am I manic right now?” Sherlock looked caught, like he wanted to get up and pace, but he was afraid it would make him seem more excitable than he was.  “You’re a doctor, for gods sake! You should know the basic tells of someone who is high. I am displaying none of those symptoms.”

John swallowed hard. “You could be concealing the tells. It wouldn’t be that hard for you. You override the transport all the time, right?” Sherlock opened his mouth to argue, but John shook his head and cut him off. “Besides, you’re right. I am a doctor. So tell me why the hell you had Wiggins over here performing a _medical procedure_ in secret if it’s not illegal!” John was yelling. He knew he was yelling now, but he couldn’t help it. Sherlock was sitting there in front of him, justifying his behavior.

Sherlock shifted slightly, and a flicker of guilt flashed across his face. In a calmer voice, he replied, “I never said it wasn’t illegal.”

That caught John’s attention.

He pulled out the chair from the other side of the table and dragged it to sit a few feet from his friend. He made a show of fixing the seat to his liking so that Sherlock would continue talking without the pressure of John’s direct gaze.

“It’s not cocaine, John. I didn’t lie.”

“But…” John prompted, sensing there was more to the story.

“You weren’t wrong when you called it a _medical procedure_. It’s an antidote, of sorts, that I take regularly. It’s not exactly commercially available.”

John watched Sherlock’s throat work for a moment.

“You made it yourself, you mean.” It’s not even a question. Somehow John just knew. Sherlock nodded his head. “But then why –“

“Why was Wiggins administering it?” Sherlock interrupted. “You already know the answer to that if you think about it.” John chewed his lip to hold back the angry retort building in his mind. 

“I don’t keep needles to hand, John. I am a recovering addict, remember?” Sherlock’s voice was harsh, but John suspected that was to keep the broken edge of want out of it more than true anger. His chest heaved for a moment. Then, he remastered control of himself, and he continued, gentler now.  “Wiggins brings the needles every other week. I mix the antidote, and he administers it.”

There was something wrong with the way his voice stuttered over the word “administers” but John set that aside and tried to parse the truth from his words.  A million questions clamored for his attention, but John pushed them back selecting the most pressing.

“It’s an antidote?” John clarified. Sherlock nodded affirmatively. John mulled that over. Odd word choice – antidote. If Sherlock was ill, the terms treatment or antibiotic would be more appropriate. Besides, John had examined Sherlock numerous times as he treated case-related injuries. Sherlock wasn’t sick. John would know wouldn’t he? 

“You’re not sick, though.” John meant it as a statement of fact, but his voice tilted up at the end making it more of an entreaty.

Sherlock placed his hand over the crook of his arm to press the cotton swab tighter to his elbow. The bleeding should have almost stopped at this point. Without thinking, John reached for his arm already mentally running through his checklist for treatment.

Sherlock spasmed as if burned and swiveled so that his arm was out of reach. He tossed the cotton swab onto the table and quickly yanked his shirtsleeve down to cover the area. He compulsively smoothed the material and even did up the button at his wrist. To John, it seemed as if he couldn’t cover it enough. As his surprise receded, John started to notice tiny tremors rippling through Sherlock. He ached to reach out and comfort the detective, but he knew such a gesture would not be appreciated. He clasped his hands on his lap and sat up straight, at attention despite his seated position.

“Hey,” he called softly, hoping not to exacerbate whatever anxiety was coursing through his flatmate. When he got no response, he tried again. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock didn’t turn back around, but his shoulders loosened a little bit. He was listening.

“Look. I don’t really know what is going on, but you clearly don’t want me to touch you. So, I won’t okay? I promise. Can you talk to me?” John hoped the sincerity he felt was translating in his tentative expression.

Sherlock half-turned, keeping his left arm well out of John’s reach. He hung his head and his shoulders curled protectively like he was expecting a fight. John knew it would do no good to argue with him about it. He would just have to show Sherlock that he would keep his word and his distance.

He smiled encouragingly. “How long have you been taking this antidote?” John asked, falling back on his medical training. He hoped that adopting a clinical approach might ease them into what was sure to be a difficult conversation.

Sherlock’s face performed a complicated contortion that Sherlock’s half-turned position mostly concealed from John. “A while,” he hedged, clearly not wanting to elaborate.

John frowned. How was he supposed to understand if Sherlock wouldn’t even tell him the basics? “Ok – good. Can you tell me what it’s for?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Poison.”

Terror slammed through John. Sherlock had been poisoned god knew how long ago, and he had been treating himself with a homemade remedy?

“Sherlock, you need to be in hospital! You need real doctors – experts – to run tests and determine the best course of treatment. I can’t triage you here. Not for poison. Why the hell didn’t you say something sooner. I’ll call ahead. I think Luca’s working A&E tonight. Might be able to expedite the process." 

“NO!” Sherlock’s voice was loud in the small kitchen. He stood and stalked toward John, eyes narrowed. “I will not be going to hospital. You don’t even know what I’m dealing with. They won’t know either! It’s none of your business anyway. I’m managing it perfectly fine without you.” 

John shrank back against the cupboards as Sherlock raved. “I didn’t tell you about the antidote because I knew you wouldn’t understand. I NEED IT, JOHN!” He screamed the last part. 

Sherlock’s face crumpled, and he looked lost. “You don’t…you don’t understand,” he pleaded, willing John to understand.

“No,” John confirmed. “I don’t understand, Sherlock.”

John had never seen Sherlock look so small.

“But I want to,” he said.

Sherlock’s mouth popped open in disbelief, and he stared at John. The minutes ticked by, and John was too afraid to move. He felt his worth being weighed in the balance and he didn’t want to tip the scale.

A noise like a gunshot rent the silence and both men jumped. John prowled into the sitting room, automatically assessing danger and clearing the room. By the time his brain caught up and realized the noise was most likely a cat getting into the bins out back, Sherlock had disappeared into his room and shut the door.    

John gaped helplessly at the solid wood of the door for a full minute. This was not at all how he thought this evening would go. He almost wished he’d stayed and let Sherlock ruin his novel.

He left the folder from Greg on the kitchen table where he knew Sherlock would see it in the morning. He'd let Sherlock spend the day breaking his mind against the rocks of the case and try to re-broach the topic afterward. Maybe he'd be lucky enough to nab an extra shift at the surgery. With a last lingering glance toward the detective's room, John turned out the lights and headed for bed. 


	2. The Earth Stands Firm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: conversation about past sexual assault near the end of this chapter. It is not explicit or graphically described. In fact, the words sexual assault and rape are not even used in conjunction with the conversation. Just know that if discussions of past sexual assault trigger you, you may want to check with me for a summary that omits the convo. 
> 
> ok - read on!

John jerked into awareness abruptly the next morning to find his field of vision blocked by high sharp cheekbones and a long, crooked nose. Sherlock was bent over him on the bed, his face so close to John’s that his curls were brushing John’s forehead. His long fine fingers rested against John’s pillow on either side, and he could feel the slow steady puffs of Sherlock’s breath on his face. The most startling realization of the entire situation was that John was not all that startled. Waking up to see Sherlock looming over him was certainly unexpected, but not, John was surprised to discover, unwelcome. He met Sherlock’s gaze, feeling a tender warmth unfurl within his chest.

“Good. You’re awake.” Sherlock’s voice was surprisingly soft.

Sherlock’s fingers twitched to the right of his head, but he didn’t move away. John thought that he should feel awkward. He was only wearing his briefs and his sheet had slipped down in the night so that it was draped low across his hips. His chest was bare, and his scar was on prominent display in a way that John never allowed. It wasn’t that he was embarrassed by it anymore. It was just another broken part of himself that he had learned to live with. No. John kept it covered because it made him feel too exposed.

He was used to folding away his fractured, fragile edges. He kept them well out of sight. But Sherlock had always seen them, no matter how hard John tried to keep them obscured. He had gotten used to his flatmate pulling his deepest secrets to the surface to examine them in the harsh light of day. It hardly bothered him anymore. John assumed that was why Sherlock’s face hovering mere inches away from his scar caused him no more than a single skipped heartbeat of nervousness. Sucking in a breath, John dispelled the anxiety entirely.

Sherlock watched, taking in every minute shift in his expression. John was sure that he had followed John’s train of thought perfectly. The moment slowed, and John felt the air around them become heavy. A bead of sweat dripped down from Sherlock’s hairline and traced the sharp line of his nose. The room faded away.

There was an intimate, close feeling in the small room. John turned his head a fraction and realized that Sherlock had closed the door behind him after entering. It made him feel like they were shut away in their own private hideout. He and Sherlock, suspended in time, in a single fragile moment.

John turned back to his flatmate and let his shoulders relax back into the mattress. He took the time to examine the man above him. Sherlock was already full dressed. The angular lines of his body emphasized by the immaculate cut of his dark navy-blue suit jacket. The shirt underneath looked pressed and steamed within an inch of its life. John could smell the earthy bergamot tones of Sherlock’s cologne mixing with the citrus mint of his hair product.

John’s eye was drawn up to Sherlock’s neck. The man’s shirt was buttoned all the way up. John wondered if Sherlock had been too distracted this morning to notice he had done them all. He could see it in his mind’s eye. Sherlock’s mind focused inward as he went through the rote motions of getting dressed. Long pale arms slipping into cool soft sleeves. Nimble fingers doing up the buttons one by one until he ran out. Fondness for the disastrous genius flooded John’s system, and he reached up to undo the top button.

Sherlock’s expression shuttered immediately, and fear flashed across his face. As John’s hand made contact with his chest, he flinched but did not move away. John held his hand completely still, waiting for an indication from Sherlock. The man’s chest heaved, and John could feel his heart beating just a bit too fast. He watched the delicate column of Sherlock’s throat bob as he swallowed before nodding imperceptibly.

John, with as much gentleness as he could muster, carefully slid the button out of the hole and let the fabric gape apart. His fingers brushed softly against Sherlock’s skin as he drew back, fluttering as softly as butterfly wings. He got only a fleeting perception of warmth before his fingers touched air.

John had no idea why Sherlock had reacted so negatively to his touch. Normally the great git forced his way into John’s personal space without thought. Flopping his feet onto John’s lap while they watched telly or wrapping his hand around John’s while passing him his cup of tea. He had never reacted to John’s touch with fear and…John thought hard to decipher the other emotion he had seen brewing behind Sherlock’s eyes. _Revulsion?_

Was this a remnant of their fight last night? Had Sherlock decided John was not to be trusted any longer? His chest ached with the severity of his longing to grab a piece of the man and make him stay. John longed to pull the answers out of him for a change – to finally understand a fraction of what went on it that great mind of his.

John’s heart dropped and whatever spell had lain over them in his tiny bedroom that morning was broken. Sherlock drew himself up to his full height, unconsciously running his hand over the button John had undone. He looked on the verge of saying something before he shook his head and turned to the door.

“Lestrade texted. We’re going to Bart’s,” he called over his shoulder. “You have fifteen minutes before I leave without you.”

He stopped in the doorway looking hesitant. His eyes looked vulnerable, like he was begging John to let the topic drop. John smiled warmly to let Sherlock know he understood. He let his relief at the fact that Sherlock still considered them a unit shine through, knowing Sherlock would see it there.

“Twenty minutes, and you make the tea.” It was the best counteroffer John could think up.

With a put-upon sigh of resignation, Sherlock grinned. “Needs must, John.” He said before disappearing down the stairs.

Ten minutes later, John trotted down the stairs to find Sherlock standing at the stove. As he entered the kitchen, he saw that Sherlock was flipping bacon in the frying pan while four thick slices of bread and two mugs of tea sat waiting on the side. His stomach gave a grumble of anticipation, and Sherlock chuckled.

John squeezed into the space beside Sherlock to grab his mug. John was careful not to accidentally brush up against him. He blew across the top, cooling the liquid before taking his first tentative sip. A deep groan of appreciation rumbled up from John’s chest as he drank. He stood next to Sherlock, watching him transfer the bacon from the pan to the slices of bread.

“You eating this morning, then?” John asked in surprise. Sherlock didn’t typically eat during cases. Sherlock hummed in response and handed John his sandwich before heading to the table. John seated himself across from Sherlock and watched with happiness as the detective attacked the sandwich with something akin to enthusiasm. Sherlock, noticing John’s attention, set the sandwich down and wiped his mouth.

John, not wanting Sherlock to stop on his account, looked down at his own plate and tucked in. When he had eaten half his sandwich, he looked up intending to locate his tea. Sherlock was watching him with a deep penetrating gaze. John squirmed under the scrutiny.

Sherlock made the decision in a matter of seconds.

“It’s the antidote,” he said.

John looked at him in shock. He had thought Sherlock would pretend as if last night hadn’t happened and here he was bringing it up of his own accord. John tried to push down his excitement, hoping that Sherlock wouldn’t see his eagerness and be put off. He nodded his encouragement and sipped his tea slowly.

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. It seemed he couldn’t decide what he actually wanted to say. Several more aborted sentences followed, and he huffed in annoyance.

John, having finished his tea, stood to put their cups in the sink. He appreciated Sherlock letting him in, but he wasn’t going to push him. He felt confident that Sherlock would tell him when he figured it out.

“You don’t have to – “

“I’m always like this after – “

They spoke at the same time. A twinge of red colored Sherlock’s cheeks. John leaned back against the kitchen cabinets and crossed his legs at the ankle. They had time.

“It’s a-a complicated chemical process.” Sherlock told him. “The effects are not insubstantial.” He looked at John from under his eyelashes, and if John didn’t know him better he would have thought Sherlock was being coy. He seemed to weigh his next words carefully.

“It makes me hungry.” Sherlock admitted guiltily. His voice was so soft, John almost missed it. His tone was apologetic, like he thought John would judge him for the humanity of something as simple as hunger.

John took two steps toward him before he remembered Sherlock’s reaction in the bedroom. He stopped but did not retreat. He waited until Sherlock met his eye, and he tried to convey all the comfort and empathy Sherlock would not let him voice. He turned back to the counter to take the pressure off of his next statement.

“Finish that up, would you?" John pointed at his half-eaten butty. "I’m just going to run down and check with Mrs. Hudson. She was supposed to contact the plumber about that leaky pipe in the bathroom.”

Without looking back, John left the kitchen. He jogged down the stairs and stood in the entryway outside the door to 221A. He knew Mrs. Hudson had left early this morning for her sister’s, but he had hoped Sherlock would accept it as the excuse he had intended it to be.

John decided to pop into Speedy’s to pick up two coffees. He knew Sherlock wouldn’t drink his, but John was sure he’d need it given the exhaustion he was already feeling.

When he got back to the flat, Sherlock was pacing around the sitting room, obviously growing impatient. John forced the coffee into his hands, and Sherlock looked at it in disgust.

“You don’t have to drink it, you berk.” John snapped. “Just hold it a minute, okay?”

He crossed into the kitchen without waiting for a response, grabbed the now empty plates off the table, and put them in the sink. He gave himself a second of privacy to smile at the fact that the butty had vanished.

John whirled back into the sitting room, grabbed the coffee from his flatmate, and dashed off down the stairs. Sherlock blinked in surprise, and John’s laugh carried back up to him on the landing.

John knew he’d just stolen Sherlock’s thunder. The detective clattered noisily after him. 

“Hilarious, John,” he said dryly when he reached the entryway. But a smile was playing around the corners of his mouth and he looked at John with immense fondness. John nodded and gestured toward the door.

_I’ll follow you anywhere_ , he thought.

The cab got stuck in mid-morning traffic making the trip to Bart’s much longer than usual. By the time they arrived, Sherlock was practically vibrating in his seat.

“Go on ahead,” John told him quickly as the cab pulled up in front of the building. “I’ll be right behind you.”

Sherlock shot out of the cab without a backward glance while John pulled a few rumpled bills out of his pocket.

“ ‘e ditch out on his halfa the ride, then?” the cabbie asked in amusement. 

John could see how he thought that, given the fact that the cab door had been flung open before the car had fully stopped. “Nah, mate. He’s just late for work is all. Here ya go,” John said handing over the fare. The cabbie accepted the bills and thanked John for the tip, chattering on for several minutes while John fought the urge to just leave. He couldn’t bring himself to be so rude, but he couldn’t listen to the man yammer any longer.

“Sorry,” he said flatly. “I’ve got to go as well. Lot’s to do today.” John fled the backseat and hurried down into the basement of the building. He knew exactly where he would find Sherlock. He turned a corner and heard Sherlock’s voice coming through an open door into a lab at the end of the corridor.

“…spectrometer analysis as well. It will likely take several days to get the information, so if you could leave me alone and let me get started, that would be ideal.”

John hurried into the lab and saw Greg standing a few feet from Sherlock who was hunched over a baggie on the workbench. Sherlock had the baggie open and was sorting small white pills. John drew in a harsh breath at the sight. He knew Sherlock was on the case, but the sight never got any easier. It always led John’s mind down the path of the past. Seeing in his mind’s eye what Sherlock must have been like back in his drug days. The tableau in front of him mixed with the leftover emotions from the previous night made it harder to block out this time.

Sherlock sighed with exasperation but did not address the issue.

“Graham’s team has finally been of some use, John,” Sherlock said. “Their questioning of Monahan led to the discovery of a safehouse where he had stashed the next batch of hypno.” Sherlock gestured to the pills in front of him. “I need to examine the molecular structure. I should be able to identify the supplier’s signature based on how the drug was compiled.”

Greg chimed in. “We haven’t been getting anywhere with Monahan. He’ll give us plenty of tangential evidence. He doesn’t seem to mind implicating himself but trying to get any information on his supplier is a non-starter. We’re running out of leads.” He shrugged apologetically.

“I’ll solve this,” Sherlock murmured, his attention already focused back on the tiny pills in front of him. “It’ll just take time.”

Greg grimaced at John and came over to join him at a table away from Sherlock, not wanting to interrupt the work. Greg slumped onto a stool.

“We can’t really spare the time,” he said in a whisper. “I know there’s only so much anyone can do with these things…” he gestured around the lab. “Even for Sherlock there are limits.”

John choked. “Don’t let him catch you saying that,” he said seriously. “He’ll take twice as long just because he can.”

Greg nodded. “I know, just..the sooner, the better on these results, you know?”

John looked over Greg’s shoulder at the curved line of Sherlock’s spine. He looked well and truly fascinated.

“You’ve brought him an interesting puzzle. He’ll do it as quick as he can, and you know as well as I do that it will be quicker than anyone else could manage.” John watched Sherlock’s hips shift as he redistributed his weight on his stool. 

“I know,” Greg replied. “He’s the best there is. Why do you think I put up with all the other nonsense?” he said jovially. “I’ve got to go but have him text me if he finds anything.”

John agreed and walked over to Sherlock’s side after Greg left. He waited patiently for Sherlock to come to a natural stopping point, and when he finally looked up, John felt an affectionate smile steal across his face. Sherlock’s hair was a frizzled mess from being tugged this way and that as the genius thought.

“Can I help?” John asked, pushing the feeling aside. The work comes first, he reminded himself.

“Not really,” Sherlock admitted. “It’s not a matter of just running tests. I know you’re perfectly capable, but I have to be able to make the necessary connections.”

Not offended in the least, John shrugged. “Alright, can you walk me through this then?” He said it more for Sherlock’s benefit than his own.

Sherlock rocked back on the stool, and, for a brief moment, John was afraid that he would tip over. Balancing himself on the knife’s edge, Sherlock leaned forward and brought the stool crashing back down on its front legs.

“Hypno, as it’s known on the street,” Sherlock started, “is a modified variant of rophenol – the date rape drug. It is extremely fast acting and almost as quickly metabolized making it extremely challenging to identify.”

“Hard to build a sexual assault case when the drug has passed out of the victim’s system,” John agreed.

“Precisely. Hypno also alters the state of mind of the user. It stimulates a sexual response and overrides a person’s inhibitions and self-control. In essence, it strips a person’s humanity down to its basest instincts. It reduces a person to a sexual imperative.” Sherlock spoke in a matter-of-fact tone, but John could see the anger simmering just below the surface. “Worst of all, perhaps, is the fact that someone under the influence of hypno won’t recognize that fact. A person on hypno will believe that he or she desires the sexual response being stimulated. It’s not until the effects wear off that a victim even realizes what has happened.”

John’s blood ran cold. He couldn’t imagine it. It was unthinkable. “That’s why there haven’t been any successful cases based on hypno,” he said with a nauseating wave of understanding.

“Mmm,” Sherlock agreed.

“How do you know all this?” John asked, his curiosity rising in spite of himself. He didn’t know exactly how long hypno-rophenol had been manufactured. When the press had gotten wind of what the pharma companies were cooking up, it had been national news. But every outlet had failed to state how Hypno was different from rophenol. There were no publicly available formulas or reports. It wasn’t something he was familiar with as a physician, but that didn’t mean his patients hadn’t been exposed to it without his knowledge. Was this knowledge Sherlock had picked up during his drug days?

Sherlock picked up one of the slides in front of him and turned it over repeatedly in his hand. John wasn’t used to this much self-conscious reflection on Sherlock’s part. He was usually forthcoming with information relating to a case, unless he was on the trail of the solution and too busy to be bothered spelling it out. This was different. This was a calm assessment of the facts, as if Sherlock was deciding what to tell John and what to hold back. It unnerved him.

“Nevermind,” John said hastily. “That was a stupid question. I don’t need to know _how_ you know, right?” He looked for a glimmer of understand from Sherlock but saw none. “It’s enough that you know. Forget the rest.”

John turned away from the workbench, expecting the conversation to be closed.

“I have personal knowledge.” Sherlock’s voice was strained, like the air struggled past his vocal chords to push the statement past his lips.

John could see the offering for what it was. Sherlock was opening himself, just a little, allowing John to see glimpses of the truth.

John turned back around and immediately wished he hadn’t. Sherlock looked stuck in a memory. His face was tinged a nasty green, and John was sure he was going to be sick. Beneath the greenish color, he looked somehow impossibly paler than normal.

“I thought you didn’t do that?” John couldn’t stop the words from coming. “I thought you didn’t _want_ that?”

He waited breathlessly for Sherlock’s answer. They never talked about this – about sex. Not since that first night when everything had been tangled up in – _married to my work_ and _it’s all fine._ John wanted to take the words back, but another part of him hoped Sherlock would answer. He wanted to understand one more small piece of the man he shared his life with.

Sherlock raised his eyes to lock onto John’s.

“I hadn’t…ever,” he swallowed thickly, “ _wanted_ to.”

John could hear a loud ticking as time passed. He saw the vulnerability in the soft slope of Sherlock’s shoulders and the cold truth in the tremble of his lip. Though he knew what Sherlock was trying to tell him, John’s brain rejected it.

The man in front of him. That wild beautiful genius – _his_ genius – had been…had not _wanted_.

A white-hot column of rage engulfed him. How could anyone have looked at Sherlock and thought they had the right to take, to touch?

John shook with anger. It took several minutes for him to restore enough calm to unclench his fists. The first deep breath he took felt like a bucket of cold water, drenching his fury and tempering it to a low burn.

He looked up to see a small sad smile on Sherlock’s face. The detective cleared his throat and looked down at the pills in front of him.

“This really will take days,” he said.

John understood at once. It had not been easy for Sherlock to admit that to him. He was fairly sure that he was the first person Sherlock had ever told, and the man did not seem convinced that he had done the right thing in doing so.

John would not make him regret it by forcing him to answer all the questions burning through John’s mind.

The questions went on and on, but John realized he did not need the answers. He needed Sherlock to be secure in the knowledge that he could trust John with this. Trust him to know and not let it change anything, not let it change them.

John drew his shoulders back. “Best get started then,” he said with finality – subject closed.

Sherlock grinned.

 

 


	3. The Ring of a Bell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Sherlock describes some details of his traumatic past experiences with sexual assault in this chapter. If discussions of past sexual assault trigger you, you may want to check with me for a summary that omits the convo. There is also discussion of dismemberment and desecration of a corpse so proceed with caution if that is not your thing. 
> 
> ok - read on!

John - Brilliant, Beautiful, Wonderful - John.

Sherlock’s thoughts were on his blogger as his body went through the motions of measuring, pouring, cutting, and crushing. He had run similar tests hundreds of times. He could afford to concentrate his efforts on unravelling the mystery that was his flatmate.

Sherlock chanced a look and was struck by the shockingly gold hue of John’s hair beneath the intense light of the lamp he was using to pore over the police files. The soft grey that had crept in around the edges of his hairline was almost white in the warm glow, giving the illusion that it wasn’t there. Sherlock felt as though he was catching a glimpse of a different John, ten years younger and a world away from the damage the war had wrought. The sight sent a delicate, fluttering feeling flitting through his stomach.

John cleared his throat and leaned back to stretch his arms above his head. His shoulder gave a loud pop as it rotated toward the ceiling. Sherlock squirmed in his seat and dropped his gaze to the microscope in front of him. 

John was an intriguing study in contradiction. His passion and encouragement were a raging hurricane in all of Sherlock’s still and silent places. The doctor who went to war was treating Sherlock as if _he_ was the one made of spun glass.

A rather large part of Sherlock wanted to be disgusted by his own behavior over these last few days. He had allowed himself to slip into patterns that were best left in the past. He could not afford to let emotion dictate his actions when logic had always offered a more tangible, more defensible result.

Still, he couldn’t help but linger over John’s surprising response to his erratic behavior. Sherlock had locked away emotion for good reason. Somehow his feelings were always too big, too loud, too sharp, too inconvenient, too wild until…

John.

The man who defied all prediction. Where Sherlock had come to expect taunts and derision, John had given him steady, whole-hearted support. He’d had questions, of course, but he’d asked only the essentials. He hadn’t pressed Sherlock’s weakness. Sherlock had seen him practically swallow back the words, but he hadn’t prodded at Sherlock’s vulnerability in his eagerness to know every detail. Once again, John had proven himself worthy of Sherlock’s trust.

It frankly terrified him to realize that he had never before stopped to question whether he should. He’d placed his trust in John from the very start. It had been instinctual, like breathing.

It was one of the fascinating contradictions about the man. For all intents and purposes, John was exceedingly average. All things being equal, Sherlock should have dismissed him out of hand. He almost had, but then he’d breathed – _Brilliant_ – and looked at Sherlock like he’d hung the moon.

No one looked at Sherlock like that. Most people at the Yard begrudgingly accepted his utility, though Lestrade often seemed to be genuinely grateful for his help. No one looked at him as if the flesh and blood and bone that comprised Sherlock was worthy of appreciation as anything other than an unwieldy flesh vessel for his extraordinary brain.

Sherlock brushed a wayward curl out of his eyes and got up to check the computer monitor. He was pushing the process as fast as he dared. They didn’t have enough samples for him to repeat these tests if he got it wrong. He sighed when he saw that it would still be several hours before there were any new results to analyze.

Across the lab, John’s stomach gave a loud grumble. “Lunch time for me,” he said briskly. “Want me to bring anything back for you?” He asked without even looking up. He clearly did not expect Sherlock to answer.

“Won’t be necessary,” Sherlock replied, shrugging on his coat.

John looked from the computer to Sherlock to the computer. Sherlock was secretly pleased. John’s brow was crinkled, and his lower lip was stuck between his teeth. It was John’s _I’m confused_ expression, and Sherlock found it hopelessly endearing.

“Are you…” John started, obviously unsure. “…because I can wait, if you’ve got a lead or…”

Sherlock could tell that John didn’t really think he’d found any new information yet. This was his way of asking Sherlock what he was up to. Sherlock pretended to consider the question.

“You know, I think I do have a lead,” he quipped as he walked out of the lab through the swinging door.

When John did not immediately follow, Sherlock poked his head back through the doorway. John stood by the workbench looking incredulously at him. In that moment, Sherlock was struck by the memory of their first meeting.

“The name’s Flap and Throttle, and the address is 254 Water Street,” Sherlock said with a wink.

This seemed to snap John out of his stupor. The tension left his face as affection suffused the slack surface. He didn’t move for a minute. Sherlock could tell he too was thinking about the first time they had met. That had been years ago now.

“You cock,” John said fondly as he squeezed past Sherlock into the hallway.

Sherlock felt his mouth curve into a small smile and decided not to fight it. He was immediately rewarded with a grin that could have lit all of London.

An hour later, they were seated in comfortable wingback chairs at the wonderfully eclectic Flap and Throttle Pub. The chairs were arranged around a table made from a discarded aeroplane propeller. The blades, attached to a central hub, were visible beneath a layer of thick glass. It was as if whoever designed the table found an old turbine engine and decided to use it as a sturdy base for the glass topper.

Sherlock had known John would love this place. His eyes had lit up when they walked in, and he’d spent the last hour pointing out all the aviation bits and bobs. He’d even told a few stories about his time in Afghanistan. Sherlock would have happily watched him for hours.

“…they stopped making that particular model in 1974. They redesigned the fuselage and added a more reliable altimeter.” John’s face was flushed with his excitement. He pushed his empty plate to the center of the table and chugged the last sip of his beer before turning his concentration to Sherlock.

“So, when you said you had a lead…” he teased.

Playing along, Sherlock replied. “I was telling the truth, John. I had a lead on lunch.”

Sherlock felt a frisson of want spike along his spine as John let out a series of high-pitched giggles. That was a sound he wanted to preserve forever. John Watson, army doctor and blogging luddite, _giggling._

“You better watch out,” John said a bit more seriously but still laughing. “I could get used to this.”

Privately, Sherlock agreed. He could definitely get used to the soft domesticity of teasing one another and spending hours on meals he had no inclination to eat just to watch John come apart at the seams. The sight of John, head thrown back and eyes resplendent with glee, lit a matching desire in him. He longed to be that free again. There was a mirth in John that Sherlock had not felt in years. Not since before…

He tried to clamp down on the inkling before it bloomed into a full-blown thought, but something must have shown on his face. He felt the atmosphere change and immediately regretted it. He wanted the lightness of their afternoon back. He didn’t want to dwell on what had happened. He didn’t want to remember…

“Hey,” John called softly.

There was a tightness in Sherlock’s chest at the tender look John was giving him. Suddenly, he wanted to tell John. He needed John to know.

“Last night,” he began, ignoring the quaver in his own voice. “I was a coward.”

That wasn’t what he’d been going to say. Sherlock cursed his stupid mouth. This was why getting emotionally involved was inadvisable. It led to sloppy declarations at the most inopportune moments.

He held up a hand to keep John from interrupting. He didn’t need John to argue with him. Honestly, he needed John to keep quiet, or he’d never get the words out.

“I explained earlier about the effects of Hypno. I told you I had personal knowledge.” Sherlock swallowed, knowing that he was about to venture into unknown territory. He was going to tell John, and he had no way to know how the man would react.

“My experiences with the drug are a bit of a deviation from the norm.” He tried to keep his voice steady. He needed to believe that he could distance himself from the words he was speaking. These were facts. Nevermind his shaking hands.

“A person who has been given Hypno will not typically recognize that they have been drugged. Their sexual response will be stimulated, and they will act upon it. That’s not – that wasn’t how it was for me.”

He looked down to realize that he was shredded his napkin into little pieces of paper. He dropped the confetti on the table and wiped his palms on his trousers.

“My body was affected by the drug. The rush of hormones stimulated a physical response and the corresponding sexual fugue, but…” his heart stuttered as he remembered what it had felt like to be that person. “My higher thinking remained functional. I was a slave to my body’s drug-induced demand for sex, but I could watch in horror as it happened.”

Sherlock shut his eyes trying to block out the images.

_Bone white fingers traced along his sternum. A high cold laugh as he struggled. The sharp sting of a tongue licked up his throat._

His eyes sprang open. His breath choked out of him. John sat still as a sentry, keeping watch while Sherlock struggled to control himself.

“I couldn’t stop it.” Sherlock forced himself to continue and his voice finally broke. It was now a reedy whimper, all crushed glass and broken edges. He needed John to understand that he didn’t want it. He didn’t ask for it, no matter what his body had done. He drew in a shaky breath. “I don’t know exactly what was done to manipulate the drug, but I know that it was altered to achieve the desired effect.”

John’s gaze was sharp, reading what he could from Sherlock’s face. “And what was the desired effect?”

“Me,” Sherlock whispered. “I was becoming too inconvenient. He wanted me out of the way and he wanted – wanted control. The drug…it’s effects…they made me _his_.” Sherlock’s voice was barely anything at all by the end of the statement. 

He pressed a hand to his abdomen and took several deep breaths. The feeling of his hand rising and falling with the motion was calming. 

“I should have realized what was happening before I downed the spiked drink, but I was already high.” He felt shame well up inside of him, and he deliberately did not look in John’s direction. “Everything was bright and fast, and I didn’t care because it was all such a relief. I was an idiot.”  

John reached forward to tangle their fingers together, gripping tightly. Sherlock wanted to take comfort in the gesture. He wanted John to hold even this small piece of him. He knew that if there was one safe place in this world, it was under John Watson’s hand.

But the comfort wouldn’t come. Sherlock felt like insects were swarming over his skin where it touched John’s, and he fought to keep his hand still. He knew that John would let go immediately if he sensed how Sherlock felt, and that was the last thing he wanted. His body simply refused to communicate with his brain, which knew quite rationally that John’s touch was different. John’s touch was gentle and patient and kind. John’s touch was _wanted._  

John squeezed Sherlock’s hand lightly, just once, then drew his hand back to his own side of the table.

“It’s alright,” he said softly. “It’s all alright.”

Sherlock wanted desperately to believe him.    

* * *

 Sherlock spent the next few days reading and rereading the test results before he had to conclude that they had yielded little in the way of clues. The samples obtained from Colin Monahan were clearly modified from the generic Hypno that cropped up every now and then at drugs busts and crime scenes, but Sherlock had been unable to identify the unknown compounds thus far. With a growl of frustration, Sherlock tossed the file onto the floor and leaned his head against the back of his chair. He was too tall to be folded up into it this way, his torso scrunched and legs akimbo. His feet were tucked underneath him with his knees splayed wide so that he resembled a praying mantis waiting to pounce. He gazed up at the ceiling with a hopeless sort of apathy. 

There were five hundred and ninety-two tiles on the ceiling, or maybe it was five hundred and ninety-three. Sherlock was annoyed that he could not decide whether the cracked tile should count as one tile or two.

Last week, Sherlock had been twirling the knife from the mantelpiece while thinking about the gestational period of guinea pigs. He had been so engrossed in his thoughts, that he hadn’t noticed Mrs. Hudson cleaning. After she threw away his algae experiment, Sherlock had stomped across the sitting room and hurled the knife into the air, striking the ceiling and cracking the tile.

True, he’d forgotten that the algae were cultivating in the crisper but that was no reason to throw it out. Mrs. Hudson had not agreed. Still, he’d only been slightly annoyed. It was hard to be truly angry at Mrs. Hudson. How can you be angry at someone who makes you tea every morning and keeps you stocked in ginger biscuits?

After shaking out the pins and needles in his legs, Sherlock flopped onto the sofa and curled his knees in so that they were covered by the loose edges of his robe. So, one tile or two? There were rational arguments to be made on both sides. For starters, it began as one solid tile. It can’t possibly now be two, right? How can a tile be greater than the sum of its parts?

 _Change._ Sherlock could almost hear John’s indulgent chuckle. _Things change, Sherlock. People evolve. Most people start as one thing and become another. It’s just their nature._

Sherlock shook his head to clear it. It was tiresome having these discussions with John when he was present. He was certainly not going to start having them in his own head.

Why wasn’t John home yet? It usually took him twenty minutes to arrive at Baker Street after leaving work. Sometimes it could take up to twenty-five minutes if he popped in at Tesco. 

Lestrade had called about a new case precisely thirty-seven minutes ago. It sounded like a promising case too. At least a seven…seven-point-five if his suspicions about the dismemberment happened to be correct. Sherlock had listened just long enough to hear Lestrade say _Windemere Court, Number 7_ before he hung up. With the progress on the Hypno case stalled, this could be just the distraction he needed. Whirling around in his haste, he’d slid into a freshly pressed pair of black trousers, a pristine white button-up, and his polished black oxfords. He had been sliding his mobile into his trouser pocket half-way to the door when it hit him.

John wasn’t home yet.

He could just text him the details. Sherlock knew John would meet him there. He always did. But something unsettled made Sherlock’s insides squirm at the thought of doing that today. Strange.

Sherlock didn’t have the luxury of following that train of thought much longer. Soon, there was a flurry of movement and a mismatched thudding on the stairs. John was home – finally!

Without looking back, Sherlock dragged the robe off his shoulders and left it crumpled in a ball on the sofa. Smoothing the lines from his shirt, he slipped on his suit jacket and folded the Belstaff over his arm. The afternoon was still a little warm, but he would want it later.  

“Come on, John!” he exclaimed as he rushed past him on the stairs.

Sherlock clattered down and wrenched the door open. He turned back to make sure that John was following and caught the tail-end of a small resigned sigh before John was schooling his face with a nod and a smile so stretched that it hurt Sherlock’s cheeks just looking at it.

It was wrong. Everything was wrong. John wasn’t excited about the case. He wanted to stay home. Why? That wasn’t John. John loved the cases. He loved it when Sherlock swanned around being a prat, only sharing information once he’d worked out the next three steps so that Lestrade always felt helplessly behind.

Sherlock prevaricated on the doorstep wondering if he should offer to let John stay behind.

The thought slammed through him like an icy chill. The fact that he was even considering leaving John behind was abhorrent. It was the repulsion more than anything that had him sliding into the back of a cab without another word.

John’s warm, solid heat beside him was a familiar comfort, but the steady silence between them was underlaid with a subtle tension that Sherlock did not know how to bridge. He laid the Belstaff over his crossed legs to hide the anxiety-induced jangling.

Several minutes passed before John took mercy on Sherlock and broke the silence.

“So…case then?” he asked, and Sherlock could detect a hint of genuine interest underneath whatever burden was currently bowing John’s shoulders. He hummed in agreement, seizing on the safe topic. He scrolled back through his text messages to read the information Lestrade had sent over after he hung up.

John smiled. “Take me through it?” 

Sherlock’s stomach fluttered in a way he did not examine too closely. This was how they were meant to be.

“Alex Dumas, 22, was found in an abandoned boat garage yesterday afternoon. Preliminary toxicology shows no obvious cause of death. However, that could be due to the fact that the Yarders have not been able to recover the essential body parts to make such a determination. Anderson and his team are still identifying remains. Apparently, the corpse was rigged to explode should anyone attempt to open the garage. When Lestrade called they were still scrapping hair and skin off the ceiling. Dumas is the presumed victim given that their personal effects were found in the garage, but their identity is still unconfirmed.”

John grimaced at the mental image Sherlock had conjured but quickly turned his attention to formulating a plan of attack. Ever the soldier, John would be considering the practical concerns of categorizing body parts to identify a victim who had been blown to pieces, leaving Sherlock to the puzzle of determining the perpetrator(s) and motive.

“So far, the Yard has been unable to put together much information,” Sherlock sneered.

“Of course they haven’t,” John replied, barely concealing a glimmer of fondness.

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow and waited for John to elaborate. John made a show of settling back into the seat before answering. “Of course they haven’t,” he repeated spreading his arms in front of him as if it should be obvious. “You haven’t arrived yet.”

It was a simple sentence, but the implication struck him hard. This was why John was indecipherable to him. He took simple comments, that would be cast-away thoughts from anyone else, and turned them into indisputable truths. His tone brooked no argument. His trust in Sherlock’s ability to find the answer and solve the case was unshakeable.

Sherlock’s stomach gave a lurch and he felt an unfamiliar sinking feeling. Someday, he would be wrong. It was just the balance of probability. What would John do then, when Sherlock had failed him? Would that steely look fade to a bland politeness? John certainly wouldn’t speak with the same certainty in his voice. Would he leave? Unimaginable.

Sherlock indulged himself with a quiet, “Mmm,” of agreement before looking away out the window. He knew that he was abysmal with reading the emotional needs of other people, but he’d have to be blind to miss the misery carving its presence into John’s muscles. He surreptitiously used the pane of glass in front of him to study John.

His trousers had a dark brown stain on the leg. The blotch was streaky as if someone tried to hastily wipe it away, but it hadn’t been treated properly. John was in a hurry, short on time. He had a rushed lunch then. A quick sandwich between patients, but he was distracted and dropped sauce on his trousers. What was distracting him? Not the surgery. He could do the work by rote. John had confided that much in him. The work was fairly dull, an endless parade of perfectly normal maladies: flu, piles, seasonal allergies and the like. Besides, an exotic malady wouldn’t make John’s shoulders creep toward his ears. He’d be telling Sherlock all about it.

Not worked related, clearly. Must be personal then. John’s left hand was balled into a fist at his side and a subtle tremor wracked the limb. Sherlock wished he could close the small space between them and still the shaking with his hand clasped over John’s, but he didn’t dare.

There were less than a handful of people that John cared about in his life. Sherlock would know if John’s distress pertained to Sherlock himself or Mrs. Hudson, so he could rule them out. That only left Mike, Bill, and Harry. Sherlock had just spoken with Mike that morning about the identical twin livers he needed for his next experiment on metabolic rates of indigenous poisonous flora. That left Bill and Harry. Bill’s correlation to John’s memories of the war could be behind the return of the tremor, but the balance of probability tipped toward Harry. She and John had been on speaking terms again lately. Just yesterday John had told him that she was six weeks sober…

“John,” Sherlock tread softly, testing the waters. He never did that. He didn’t bother. When he couldn’t deduce answers, he just asked, regardless of the sensitivity of the topic. This was different somehow. He couldn’t bear to see the hurt flash across John’s face, so he censored himself. He wouldn’t do this for anyone else. Not for anyone but John.

“How is Harry?” The question hung between them for a moment before John sighed. The tension unspooled as John melted into the seat. It was as if he had been carrying all that tension just waiting for Sherlock to ask.

“Harry’s in hospital. She drove her car into an embankment this morning.” John shut his eyes and breathed deep. He was angry. “She broke three ribs.” John looked directly at him, and Sherlock shied away from the intensity of that gaze. It was steady and slightly accusatory, as if he was challenging Sherlock to be rude about his sister.

Sherlock took it all in. He let John batter himself against Sherlock’s defenses. Mycroft was right compassion would kill him. The length of the seat may as well have been an ocean. This empathy would drag him under.

“I’m sorry.” It was not enough, he knew it wasn’t, but he couldn’t think of what else to say. He meant it though, and John must have understood because he smiled at Sherlock in that crooked way that said it’s all fine.  

Sherlock swallowed convulsively, buying time to formulate the words he needed, but he couldn’t find them. They simply didn’t come. The cab had stopped moving, Sherlock’s brain registered faintly in the background. He didn’t have time for that particular deduction, not when John was sitting there looking at him like he held the secrets to the universe.

The cabbie cleared his throat, and John reeled back like he’d been slapped. He fumbled for the door handle and stepped out of the cab, slamming the door behind him. It closed with a muffled finality that Sherlock felt right down to his toes. He glared at the cabbie and paid him with exact change. He took one last moment to steady himself before he followed John onto the crime scene, shoulders back, spine straight – the consulting detective once more.

By the time he caught John up, the doctor was already arguing with Lestrade. The odds did not look good for the DI. John was already a hairsbreadth away from losing his composure. As he got close enough to catch the words, he was surprised to find that John’s indignation was on his behalf.

“I don’t understand,” John pushed. “Why ask Sherlock here at all if you weren’t going to allow him inside? There’s nothing he can do from out here that he couldn’t do at Baker Street with crime scene photos and preliminary reports. This is a bloody waste of time, and you know it.”

John, rightly, looked put out by the thought that he’d been dragged across London to act as referee in an argument Lestrade suspected would arise between himself and Sherlock. The DI shifted guiltily and chewed his lip. There was a reason for their presence then, Sherlock surmised. He stole the glossy crime scene photos out of Lestrade’s hand and flipped through them quickly. He retained the two photos that were pertinent, and he thrust the rest back at the DI. Sherlock moved closer to John, so that he could point out the essential aspects of the scene, with special emphasis on the details that Scotland Yard had missed. Sherlock did not look at the DI, but he raised his voice so that his comments wouldn’t be missed.

“Lestrade clearly has somewhere to be, John. He can’t afford to hang around here waiting for Anderson to activate the few unaffected brain cells that remain in his skull. The crime scene techs have been thorough with their photographing of the scene. Not that they were particularly insightful. They took images in a rough grid so as not to miss anything. However, in this case, their dogmatic approach has paid off. Look here,” Sherlock brandished one of the photos at John.

The photograph showed the charred, twisted remains of what was likely a life preserver, a paddle, and a VHF radio. Amidst the ash and rubble, John could make out splintered fragments of bone: femur, ulna, patella, femur, tibia, radius, mandible…

“That can’t be right,” John murmured, grabbing the photo and angling it to see better in the dim light. Sherlock beamed at John, thrilled that he had picked up what half of Scotland Yard had not. Lestrade, fidgeting and impatient, crowded behind them to look as well.

“What’s not right?” he asked John tiredly. Clearly, he was in no state to entertain Sherlock’s games tonight. “Anderson’s not cocked it up again, has he?” Sherlock snorted, but deferred to John. How Anderson missed this, he’ll never understand, but he respected Lestrade. He really didn’t want to start an argument, and John was better at _the people stuff_.

John squinted at the photograph, then looked up at Lestrade. “Was there anything you lot dug up that suggests Alex had any medical abnormalities?”

“Nah, they broke their ankle a couple years ago on a ski holiday in Switzerland with their family, but nothing seriously out of the norm. Why?” Lestrade’s voice was tinged with hope. John handed over the photograph and pointed at three distinct objects. The white bones stood out grotesquely amidst the dark charring and blood. 

“Because there are three femurs in this picture.” John said it nonchalantly, laid it down as fact, but Lestrade still spluttered in disbelief.

“Are you sure, John? Pretty hard to tell from a photograph, right? I mean, you’d have to actually examine them to be sure?”

Sherlock almost pitied the man. Three femurs, barring extremely unlikely circumstances, indicated that there was more than one corpse in the boat garage. Lestrade’s puzzling murder had just turned into a potential serial killer case. Sherlock suppressed the urge to laugh. God, it was like Christmas! Three femurs, no fingers, and a locked room mystery all rolled into one. He spun away from the group to hide the small smile he could not keep off his face, but John saw it, of course he did.

“Brilliant,” John breathed. There was an unfamiliar tightness in Sherlock’s chest, and he couldn’t look away from his raggedy doctor. John’s face did something complicated and his brow wrinkled. Lestrade swore under his breath and radioed Donovan to meet him at the car. Before he could take more than three steps, John called after him.

“Oi, Greg! Where do you have to be so bad that you don’t want to hear the rest of it?”

Greg paused, and John sucked in a breath, clearly surprised to see that the DI’s face had gone deep red. Sherlock could feel the awkwardness spooling out. This could turn into a long, convoluted conversation if he didn’t step in.

“Lestrade’s got a date. Before you ask, his hair’s been recently cut, he’s walking with a slight limp – obviously wearing new shoes that pinch, and he’s trying out a new cologne. It’s been applied with a heavy hand, if you ask me. Not to mention he has been obsessively checking his watch since we arrived. Obvious. He has a date tonight. A new partner – it must be. He can’t call and cancel or be late because he hasn’t built up the relationship cache to allow such a faux pas. He knew he wouldn’t be able to leave the scene until he had at least a tentative picture of what had happened, so he called me in to speed up the process. Good thinking too. He really likes her. It wouldn’t do to have to meet her here. Quite the distraction. Besides, it is horribly inappropriate to display characteristics of arousal at a crime scene. People would talk you know.” Sherlock rattled off, sarcastically. 

Lestrade looked like he wanted to evaporate on the spot, but John was struck dumb. A moment later, he was bent in half giggling hysterically. Between wheezes, he was apologizing to Lestrade, but it was clearly difficult to believe he was being sincere when his face was turning purple.

“Oh God, Greg. I’m sorry but…Jesus. Sherlock, you fucking wanker! You just wanted to see Greg squirm didn’t you. Christ! This is all payback for that last case when he solved it before you even got called in. Bit not good, eh? Bit not good.”

Sherlock leaned against John’s arm, a long lithe line of warmth against John’s skin. It hadn’t been cold enough yet to wear his jacket.

Lestrade made for the car muttering darkly. Sherlock would probably pay dearly for his moment of fun, but right now he couldn’t care. His mobile vibrated insistently in his pocket. Probably Greg already threatening to leave Sherlock off the next five cases if he told anyone else.

Sherlock watched John, breathless with laughter, as he pressed his finger to his mobile. The screen illuminated his face, and he immediately wished it wouldn’t. He wanted to go back to the moment just before he took out his mobile. He wanted to go back to the laughter and the warmth. When had it gotten so cold? Sherlock’s fingers shook around his mobile, so he clutched it tighter. His breathing turned haggard, and he was thankful that John was still laughing. Maybe he wouldn’t hear the change. Maybe he’d chalk it up to mirth.

Sherlock’s body was rigid with tension and fine lines were carving their paths around his eyes. He quickly pressed the lock button, and his phone fell dark. Although the harsh light was gone, Sherlock felt exposed under John’s scrutiny. The happiness had gone out of the air. Now there was a vast void between them that John could not cross. Sherlock was already mentally drifting, going where John could not follow.

He couldn’t just keep standing here. He had to get out. Sherlock cloaked himself in the grey woolen protection of the Belstaff. He blanked his face into an inscrutable mask and his posture screamed untouchable. There was an undercurrent surrounding him, as if the very air around him were a live wire. Sherlock slid his leather gloves onto his hands. It was absurd! He knew it was. It wasn’t even cold out, but Sherlock needed his armor, needed to be covered up to his neck.

Sherlock felt a moment of stabbing regret for what he was about to do, but it was necessary. He turned on the spot and walked swiftly in the other direction. John fought to follow him, but by the time he made it to the corner, Sherlock was gone.

Sherlock ran without really seeing the road beneath his feet. He knew London better than he knew himself. He was not concerned about where he’d end up so long as John wasn’t there to see him fall apart. He raced through a narrow alleyway and came to a halt panting against a dirty brick wall. There were glass shards from discarded beer bottles and cigarette butts littering the ground. Sherlock leaned his head back against the wall, disregarding the patina of grime bathing the bricks.

With shaking hands, he reopened his mobile to display the message that had turned his world upside down.

_Sebastian’s. Tomorrow night. 9pm. Don’t be late. - M_

His legs felt unsteady and he slid down to crouch between the wall and the ground. He forced his head between his knees and he took long gulping breaths. This was not supposed to happen anymore. They had agreed. _He_ would keep his distance, and Sherlock would not interfere with _his_ business. _He_ practically ran the bloody empire, you’d think _he’d_ get bored of chasing Sherlock across London.

Sherlock had known the truce was too good to last. He mentally catalogued his rusty shelf of backup plans and was surprised to find that he had no contingencies – not anymore. A wave of nausea battered his stomach, and he was forced into a series of dry heaves. Disgusted with himself, he swiped the back of his hand across his mouth. He had become complacent, trusting that _he_ would keep his word to Sherlock despite all evidence to the contrary. 

Sherlock slumped defeatedly to sit fully upon the ground. He pulled his knees into his chest until the Belstaff was pulled tight around him like a blanket covering his entire body. The crook of his left elbow itched in a decades old siren call that Sherlock had trained himself to ignore. In this moment, it was almost too powerful to overcome. He needed to get somewhere safe. He needed to get there quickly. He needed to get home. He needed –

 

 _John_.

 

He didn’t know how it happened. It should have been impossible, but suddenly, John was there. He was standing next to Sherlock in the dingy alley, watching him shake his way through the shock. He watched John’s lips form shapes, but they had lost all meaning. John chewed his lip, probably deliberating the best course of action.

Minutes passed, or at least that was what it felt like for Sherlock. Suddenly, John was knelt at his side. When had he moved closer? His hands were out, palms facing Sherlock. He felt like his head was full of cotton-wool and there was a high-pitched ringing in his ears. John’s mouth was making shapes again. John’s eyes were wide, and his brow crinkled in hard lines when Sherlock didn’t respond.

Sherlock lifted a finger to John’s forehead and stroked gently, trying to smooth the lines away. John shouldn’t look like that.

His face crumpled beneath Sherlock’s touch.

Suddenly, Sherlock’s left arm was on fire. A tingle of sensation shot along his nerves, and he couldn’t suppress the moan of pain that escaped him. He didn’t realize that John had gripped his arm until the hand was snatched back. Sherlock shook his head and concentrated hard. He had to know what John was saying.

At first, it was all just a jumble of meaningless noises joined together, but eventually the letters rearrange themselves into a comprehensible order.

“Sherlock?”

He fought to meet John’s eye, to let him know he understood. John seemed to draw strength from this reaction.

“Right. I need to check your pulse, okay? I’m going to touch your neck. Is that alright?” 

Sherlock blinked at him, absorbing the meaning and parsing the need to respond. John was patient though. He watched Sherlock and waited as if he had all the time in the world. He couldn’t be comfortable like that though, his leg curled up underneath him. He’d be limping tomorrow. Sherlock made a noise of distress which John immediately misinterpreted. He frowned but gestured at Sherlock.

“Can you stand?”

Sherlock didn’t think he could. He bullied his legs to move and he managed to get them underneath him before they buckled. He tipped sideways, grabbing at John desperately. John caught him reflexively, just like Sherlock knew he would. He gripped John by the shoulders and hid his face against the doctor’s neck. He felt John tense, but Sherlock couldn’t care. He knew this was outside the constraints of typical flatmate behavior. It was even outside the constraints of their unusual brand of close-yet-platonic. Sherlock inhaled, and the scent of John settled some of the discordant jangling inside of him.

John didn’t argue or push him away. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock and held him close against his body, cradling him away from the sight of any passersby. It was a firm, grounding embrace, but there was an unmistakable edge of protection in it. John was broadening his shoulders as much as possible, creating a physical barrier between Sherlock and the street. John’s soldier instincts coming to the fore. He was protecting Sherlock’s weakness from the eyes of the world.

John's back was a hard line, a steel cage woven around Sherlock, but his hands were painfully gentle where they held him. One palm came around his neck to cradle Sherlock’s face against his shoulder while the other ran soothing lines up and down his spine. Sherlock shivered. John didn’t shush him or hurry him along. He stayed with Sherlock, giving him the time he needed to come back to himself. John simply was. He existed in Sherlock's periphery. Unshakably firm.

Sherlock savored the feeling of John’s strong arms surrounding him. He knew their time was limited. M was back now, and Sherlock had no leverage to keep him away. John would leave. Sherlock would not survive John leaving. Sherlock clung to one final thought as he slid into oblivion: _There would be no coming back from this once John was gone._


	4. On an Empty Stomach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am going to stop putting warnings at the beginning of each chapter. It spoils the plot, but I am doing my best to tag the story accordingly. As always, if you have a specific issue relating to a tagged trigger warning please let me know and I will work to get you a summary so you can skip that part. That being said, this is a highly angsty fic that involves past sexual assault, abuse, manipulation, drugs, murder, and more. I love all my readers and want you all to be safe. Please take care of yourselves, even if that means you have to stop reading. Thanks for understanding!
> 
> ok - read on!

The lights of London outside the window blurred and ran like an Impressionist painting come to life. Gone were the stark well-defined edges of the familiar buildings, swept away by his mind’s insistence that he focus on the not inconsiderable effects of the cab’s motion. The minutia bled together until Sherlock could no longer tell one object from another. Where did the street end? Where did the shopfronts begin? The darkness lent itself to this illusion, shrouding important distinguishing details, while the lamp light smeared over it all in webby, veined fractal patterns.  

London was a perpetually unravelling mystery, especially at night. Between the shadows and the luminosity, Sherlock captured more accurate observations of the ever-changing quality of the city during the twilight hours.  

Whoever said secrets cannot live in the sun was a goddamn idiot. 

In Sherlock’s experience, it was the only place they ever managed to hide. Secrets, lies, obfuscations - they cannot exist in the too ephemeral darkness. There is no refuge there on which to rely. You cannot hide a whisper in the silence.  

Light, on the other hand, covers a multitude. It’s like cloaking a private conversation amongst the murmured static of a busy coffeeshop. With enough ambient noise, numerous lies can be hidden.  

Sherlock was so deep in thought that he didn’t immediately bound out of the vehicle when it pulled up and idled in front of 221B. He was still questioning his ability to truly _know_ anything. Could anyone really know anything if it was liable to go and change on you the minute you’d catalogued its parts?

John’s soft, warm hand covered his own in the space between them on the seat. Sherlock took a moment to savor the gentle touch of John’s fingertips along the slender bones on the back of his hand. The touch was firm enough to ground him back in the present but not so heavy as to be oppressive.

Sherlock was still skirting the edges of panic he could feel welling up inside himself. The facts had not changed. M was still out there, demanding Sherlock’s presence at what would undoubtedly be a disaster. But the minute John had found him in that dank alleyway, the truth had become clear to him again in a way that left him ashamed at his lapse. Time and again, John continued to show Sherlock that he was not alone. He only hoped that was a dedication John would continue to feel no matter what M planned to initiate.

He knew that John deserved an explanation for what had just happened. The soldier would demand details that Sherlock did not want to give. They would only upset him.

As he followed John out of the cab, he pulled together what he considered to be the optimal facts – enough that John would be satisfied but not enough to chase him away. John could not know the whole truth. It would be their undoing, _John’s_ undoing. Sherlock knew. After all -  

_ Who falls in love with a broken thing? _

 

The trip up to the flat was a blur. In fact, Sherlock did not remember getting out of the cab. He couldn’t recall whether it had been cold outside, whether there had been any wind. He couldn’t remember who paid the cabbie or unlocked the front door. All he knew was that he was standing in the kitchen looking at a sink full of dirty test tubes, beakers, teacups, and god knew what else. He didn’t often keep track of the detritus after he finished an experiment. It was usually tossed in the sink while Sherlock moved on to the next hypothesis. John eventually got fed up enough to wash and put away the odds and ends. Or Mrs. Hudson would.

He heard the rustling of John removing his jacket, but he didn’t turn to look. He felt unmoored. He wasn’t sure where to start. The floor groaned as John moved further into the sitting room. Sherlock could make out a weighted thudding. He heard John’s knee creak as he squatted down, and a long sharp zip of sound… 

 _A strike of a match_ , his brain helpfully supplied. John was lighting the fire.

Sherlock shook his head and began to take the items out of the sink. He piled them on the side and flipped the tap on to fill the basin with hot water. He scrambled around for a few minutes looking for the dishwashing liquid before he remembered that John had put it in one of those funny novelty dispensers.

The cartoonishly cheerful duck stared glassily at him. The happy, open, slightly vacant expression unnerved him. He covered its eyes with his long fingers and pushed down on the duck bill. He watched the soap mix in with the hot water producing big fluffy bubbles. When he had enough soap, he placed the dispenser back on the counter but made sure that it was facing the wall. He’d had enough eyes on him today. He’d be damned if he was going to be made to feel vulnerable by a rubber duck.

When the basin was full, Sherlock turned off the tap and submerged the dirty dishware. He knew the water was still too hot, but the shock was grounding. He moved the items around so that they all eventually fit underneath the canopy of bubbles. He watched his long, pale fingers turn red with heat.

Sherlock felt more than saw John join him. He heard his sharp intake of breath when he saw Sherlock’s reddened skin, but he mercifully said nothing. After a brief pause, John stood at his side holding a dish towel.

“Want me to dry?” John asked.

Sherlock was surprised by how calm he sounded. He’d expected a diatribe about dashing off without him and concerned questions about his breakdown in the alley. He could tell John was interested, very much so. Why wasn’t he asking?

He’d been silent for too long. Drawing his mind back to the task at hand, he began to wash an Erlenmeyer flask.

“That would be – uh, good,” he replied. _Yes, good, very articulate._ He rolled his eyes at himself and added, “Thank you.”

John gave him a small smile that did not reach his eyes.

The repetition of washing each dish was calming. It narrowed his focus in a way that allowed him to focus only on the task at hand. Was that a bit of dried egg clinging to the plate or had he used it for that experiment with the mucus membranes?

He couldn’t remember. Anyway, it hardly mattered. Not once he’d cleaned the filth away.

Sherlock spent the next quarter of an hour lost in the rhythmic ritual of washing and handing the items off to be dried. John, for his part, remained steady. He dried the items with the same exquisite attention to detail. He made sure they were not streaky or greasy before lining them on the counter.

Sherlock appreciated John’s steady warmth. It fortified him, shored up the ragged places he hadn’t noticed getting so drafty. He couldn’t deny it. John had seen the cracks in his armor tonight. Truly seen them in a way he had not allowed anyone before to see.

The thought frightened him. He wasn’t afraid of John. Not at all. John wasn’t the one who needed to be protected. A wave of bitter anger washed over him as he indulged his own selfishness. John was selfless, kind, and caring, but he was not without his limits. There were more than a handful of offences Sherlock knew his flatmate would not tolerate - lying, leaving, cutting John out- any one of those actions would push the doctor too far.

Sherlock was about to do all three.

There was nothing left to occupy his idle hands, yet he left them soaking in the soapy water. It felt good though his fingers had long ago gone pruny. John had slung the damp dish towel over his shoulder and was making a show of rearranging and straightening the lines of dishes he’d dried. Sherlock read the kindness and the space John was attempting to give him. Good, kind, clever John who always knew what he needed and never pushed.

In that moment, Sherlock made up his mind. He couldn’t be selfish, not with this. He wanted John’s compassion more than anything, and he could not allow himself to give in. John did not ask for this. He’d told John their life might be dangerous, but this was a different sort of danger altogether. John didn’t sign up for this. Sherlock wouldn’t let him sign up for this. He’d not had a choice in so long, but John still did. He couldn’t be allowed to make the wrong choice, not while it was in Sherlock’s power to prevent it.

He could do this, would do this, for John. He would do what needed to be done. He would have plenty of time to hate himself later. He could already feel the thick slow molasses-like pull of self-loathing slipping in around the edges of his mind.

“I know you want to help,” he started. He’d meant to be cutting, but his voice was much too soft.

John looked up at him and nodded. His face remained serious, but hope was carved into the hesitant slope of his shoulders.

Sherlock turned away. He had to do this, but he didn’t have to watch that hope flicker and die. He was not such a masochist as all that.

“I know, but you can’t.” He tried to make it sound final, not leaving any opening for denials or discussion. “This isn’t something to be fixed.” Sherlock drew on all his past experiences – the parents, teachers, and therapists who had tried before. He let the hurt and the rage loose. He gave them free reign and was surprised to find the acid in his voice was real, albeit misplaced.

“You think that if I could just explain, if I could put it into words, then you would understand. You’re wrong. You wouldn’t understand, and it wouldn’t do a bit of good. You can’t change the past, John. You can run from it, but it always has a way of catching you, in the end.” He drew in a shuddering breath that he hadn’t realized he had been holding.

“This isn’t just some lowlife criminal painting a target on our backs. It’s more complicated than you can even imagine, and I am compromised. I can’t protect you.” Sherlock steeled himself for the final blow. “The last thing I need is the liability of carrying your dead weight. I can’t be stopping to answer question after question. Not with this. The match is set. There’s too much at stake, and I refuse to lose.”

It had been a cheap shot directed at what Sherlock knew was John’s weak underbelly. John was indispensable to the Work. He had always told him so, but John had never quite believed it. A fact that would certainly work to his advantage now.

Sherlock waited for John’s inevitable rage. He waited for the shouting and stomping, but it never came.

When he looked up, John’s face nearly sent him to his knees. The dish towel sat next to the clean dishware, folded into pristine lines, but John was standing several paces away. His face was not angry or sad. It was resigned. There was an ancient weariness behind his eyes. He chewed his lip, and when he spoke there was little emotion behind it.

“I don’t know why you’re saying this,” he whispered.

Sherlock opened his mouth to retort, but John held up a hand, somehow conveying the power of Captain Watson without a single word.

“I really don’t know why you’re saying this, but I think you’re scared. I think you’re fucking terrified, and you don’t know what to do with that.” His gaze scorched Sherlock as it roved over his features. “I can’t make you trust me, Sherlock.” John’s voice cracked over his name. “But I wish to God that you would."

John held Sherlock's focus with a searching, desperate gaze. Even now, he was trying to reassure Sherlock. The detective couldn't understand John's depths. The man never seemed to run out of empathy and patience.

"I’d never take the piss. You know that, right?” John asked. 

Sherlock knew this was all his fault. All the pain hidden beneath the iron control of the soldier was his doing. He hated the way John was favoring his leg and didn’t even realize it. He hated the stupid tremor in John’s hand. It hadn’t made an appearance in ages. He’d helped John put aside his steel façade, but now the cracks were starting to show. Sherlock was purposefully prodding at them. Pushing John to pull away before he could break him.

Without a glance back, Sherlock waltzed down the hall and into the bathroom. Before shutting the door, he raised his voice enough for John to hear:

“I don’t know anything anymore.”

* * *

 

When Sherlock woke the next morning, he was surprised to hear John puttering about the flat. He’d thought that John would be out already, picking up an extra shift at the clinic or just avoiding Sherlock.

With a heavy sigh, he rolled onto his back and rubbed at his eyes. He’d lain there most of the night trying to think of a way around the inevitable, but he hadn’t been able to find one.

Two things were going to happen tonight. First, he was going to have to meet M at Sebastian’s. If he didn’t show up, there was no telling what M might do. Second, he was going to have to ditch John. After last night, the man was unlikely to let Sherlock out of his sight, but Sherlock would never let him within a five-block radius of M.

Beyond those two occurrences, Sherlock could not predict the likely direction of the evening. The text had been short and to the point. There were no extraneous details to dissect, no indications of intent. It had been a summons, one that Sherlock dared not refuse.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock leaned against an industrial-looking building and surveyed the scene in front of him. It was a French restaurant with a large picture window that allowed him to take in the detail of the place, even from his position across the street. The restaurant had been designed to feel homey and seat as many as possible at the same time. Sherlock could tell it usually had dozens and dozens of tables (mostly for two) arranged in neat rows.

He checked his watch. _8:56pm_.

Tonight, however, the restaurant had been cleared, and a single table sat in the middle of the floor, bathed in light. It was all set dressing.

The lights in the restaurant dimmed, and a solitary spotlight shone down on the isolated table.

 _8:58pm._ The game was about to begin.

Sherlock checked the sign hanging above the door, though he already knew what it said: Sebastian’s. He’d have to walk across that street in thirty seconds if he wanted to be on time. He hadn’t decided yet. He used these final moments to deduce what he could from the location.

M had planned this meeting down to the last detail. A brightly-lit restaurant, easily viewed from the outside, lit specifically to draw the eye to the singular table…

Deduction: this was M’s stage. He was putting on a show, and Sherlock hadn’t been given his lines.

He wasn’t hiding in the shadows anymore, then. In the past, he wouldn’t have dared to pick such a public location. This was new. It indicated surety. M was sure of his place and his actions. There was a concrete purpose for this night. There was a reason Sherlock was here.

His feet carried him across the asphalt without conscious thought. A taxi braked hard to avoid hitting him, but he barely noticed the annoyed shouting and honking. His eyes were fixed on the restaurant with a horrified sort of fascination. No part of him wanted to go in there, but he did want to know why he’d been summoned. After all this time, what could he possibly have to offer?

“It’s rude to linger in the doorway, darling. I’ve told you a hundred times.”

Sherlock’s blood ran cold. He’d convinced himself that he’d finally forgotten that voice. Now that it came to it, he knew the truth. He hadn’t forgotten, would never forget the deceptively pleasant Irish lilt with an undercurrent of steel. He was clearly pleased to see Sherlock but also annoyed. Sherlock had oscillated, and that wasn’t part of the show. This was a command. _Come in here, Now._

 Sherlock straightened his shoulders and sauntered into the room. No need to betray his own reticence. His eyes swept the open space quickly. There wasn’t much to see. It was mostly empty, but he sensed movement behind the kitchen door. Those would be the bodyguards. Sherlock wasn’t naïve enough to think they’d be meeting alone.

“You’ve left behind the street thug persona, I see,” Sherlock said. He sounded detached, almost bored. That was good. M needn’t know his pulse was thudding in his throat.

M was seated already. He twirled a butter knife between his fingers, watching the light glint off the utensil with too much admiration. His eyes had tracked Sherlock’s entrance into the room, but they’d strayed back to the blade.

He was shorter than Sherlock remembered. Even seated, the height disparity was obvious. The choice had been deliberate then. 

Sherlock swallowed back a dark chuckle. He needn’t have bothered. The man in front of him exuded power, lethal and unhinged. His height would not diminish the danger one bit.

“It’s more than just an act though,” Sherlock continued. M was wearing a tight, tailored dark navy suit jacket over a black collar shirt and matching silk tie. That lot wouldn’t come cheap. 

“Richard James?” he asked.

M clocked Sherlock’s gaze and smirked. 

“Westwood, as you well know.” M replied.

Finally, he put down the butter knife with visible regret and reached a hand out toward the detective.

“Come. Join me.”

Again, there was no question in the statement. Sherlock had forgotten how claustrophobic this had always felt. He slid his scarf from his neck and shoved it in the pocket of his Belstaff before sitting but made no move to take off the coat.

M’s eyes flashed dangerously, and he clucked his tongue. Sherlock’s shoulders hunched automatically, reading the disapproval in the action and preparing for the blowback. Retribution would be swift. He’d experienced it often enough to know. His eyes fixated on the tile floor, and he waited. 

M uncrossed his legs and stood, leisurely making his way to stand behind Sherlock. When he spoke, his voice was a whisper and he was so close that Sherlock could feel his breath like a caress on the back of his neck. It made his skin crawl, and he shivered. He regretted having removed his scarf.

“Where are your manners, my lovely?” 

Sherlock flinched as a cold hand settled against the side of his neck angling his head back toward the man behind him. The hold was possessive, and Sherlock’s heart raced at the proximity between M’s fingertips and his own windpipe. He knew M must be able to feel his tension. Cold black eyes bored into his own. Sherlock cursed this man that made him feel as if no time had passed. When that gaze flickered down to Sherlock’s lips, he felt every bit the helpless seventeen-year-old he’d been when they’d met. 

Only he wasn’t. He wasn’t naïve or young or helpless now. He’d rebuilt himself. The process had taken many years, but he’d done it. He’d gotten clean. He’d found a profession that welcomed his absurdities. He’d found a passable antidote to the poison running in his veins. He’d never be free of it, but he could contain it. He was containing it.

He squirmed in his seat as a flush rose up his neck. The man behind him chuckled and slid his hand to Sherlock’s shoulder, tugging on the lapel of his coat.

“Let’s have a proper dinner. Hmm? Take this off. It’s too warm in here for all that wool. Besides, you’ll be staying a while.” M’s lip curled in a sneer.

He slid the coat from Sherlock’s shoulders and walked across the room to hang it on the hooks by the door. He brushed his hand over the wool, ridding it of the dust and dirt that had accumulated during Sherlock’s walks through London.

Knowing that M would insist, Sherlock undid the button of his suit jacket before resettling into his chair. The table was pristine. Only the butter knife was askew, but there weren’t any menus. Sherlock took a sip from his water glass while M rejoined him.

A flicker of movement caught his eye, and Sherlock realized M must have signaled his guards because they were entering the dining room with a large salad, breadsticks, and a bottle of wine. One man dished out equal portions of salad for each of them while another poured their wine. The breadsticks were placed in the middle of the table. All the while, M’s eyes never left Sherlock’s face. 

The men didn’t look for any acknowledgement from their leader. They simply completed their tasks and returned to the kitchen.

Sherlock unrolled his silverware and placed the linen napkin in his lap before folding his hands in front of him on the table. He remembered the rules, and it was too early in the evening to aggravate M. He hadn’t revealed his purpose in calling Sherlock here yet.

“Perfect,” M breathed when Sherlock folded his hands. His eyes glinted with carnal appreciation at the submissive nature of the gesture.

“You remember.” He sounded pleased. M picked up his own fork and speared a large piece of lettuce. “You can be so beautifully compliant when you try.” M placed his fork on the edge of his plate while he chewed.

Clearly, M thought he was toying with him, but Sherlock had shored up that particular weakness. When they’d first met, he’d been an addict funneling all his family money into his habit. As a result, he’d often been hungry. In the past, M had used that fact to control him. The promise of a warm meal and a dry bed had been a more than fair price for giving up a little control.

Had he been sober, he’d have seen where that game was headed. But he’d been high all the time back then, and he hadn’t cared overly much about the future. It’s hard to care about protecting a future that you’re not convinced you're likely to have.

Now, Sherlock was the master of his transport. He could go long periods of time without succumbing to sleep or hunger. M would grow sick of this game before Sherlock was reduced to begging. A flicker of displeasure raced across M’s face, and he finished his salad in silence, motioning for his men to take the plates to the kitchen. Sherlock had not been allowed to touch his own salad.

Their salads were replaced with equal servings of pasta in decadently rich cream sauce. M leaned back in his chair and swirled his wine around its glass.

“How long has it been?” he asked.

Sherlock knew better than to ignore a direct question.

“Just under ten years." 

M’s face crinkled with anger. The venom in his voice was audible. “You can do better than that!”

Sherlock fiddled with his cufflink as he replied, “Nine years, ten months, twenty-six days, two hours and...” He checked his watch. “Thirty-four minutes.”

M’s body relaxed into placid lines again. “Very good,” he murmured. “Try the wine. It’s fabulous.”

Sherlock raised his glass and took a sip without looking at it. “Earthy,” he commented dryly. He knew M would expect gratitude for granting him the indulgence of a sip of wine, and he had no intention of complying. The single word answer would anger him as well.

He watched as one of M’s eyebrows quirked dangerously. Sherlock placed his glass back on the table and fiddled with the base until it was back in perfect alignment. He placed his folded hands back on the table and watched M impassively.

Sherlock felt his face heat under the intensity of M’s stare. The wine must be quite potent.

M speared a gnocchi with his fork, dragged it through the cream, and offered it across the table. Sherlock leaned forward and took the pasta into his mouth, wrapping his lips around the metal tines and sucking the sauce.

M moaned appreciatively, and Sherlock felt a bolt of arousal shoot down his spine. There was sweat beading along his hairline, and his shirt felt tacky against his chest. He chewed, savoring the taste. M watched Sherlock’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. M continued to feed him bits of pasta from his own plate, alternating bites for himself and Sherlock.

When they had consumed half the pasta, M paused, wiped his mouth, delicately folded his napkin onto the table, and crossed the short distance. He twirled Sherlock’s chair so that it faced away from the table and straddled his lap.

Sherlock’s body leaned into the contact, craving his touch. He ran his hand up Sherlock’s jaw to grasp a handful of curls, and tilting Sherlock’s head back, M softly kissed his pulse point. Sherlock’s eyes fluttered closed.

Suddenly, his jaw clamped down hard, and Sherlock spasmed, trying to get away, but his body was pinned beneath M’s. The man tightened his grip on Sherlock’s hair until it was painful. With his other hand, he squeezed Sherlock through his trousers. The pressure felt sinfully good, but M’s nails dug into his flesh. The pleasure and pain mixed into a confusing cocktail that had Sherlock wishing he was anywhere else.

His head was still pinned back by M’s grasp, so he looked down at M through his lashes and saw his predatory grin. It made his blood run cold, though his body was flush with arousal.

“You’re mine, Sherlock,” he growled. “Did you think I had forgotten?”

Sherlock’s hips were pushing up into the pressure of M’s hand though Sherlock’s mind was screaming at him to run.

“I chose you, marked you, and You. Are. Mine.” With violent force, M brought Sherlock’s lips to his own. Their teeth clacked against one another, and Sherlock felt the skin on his lip split. Warm, wet blood mingled with M’s tongue in his mouth. He was embarrassingly hard in his trousers, and he couldn’t stop his own needy whines.

Without breaking the kiss, M undid Sherlock’s left cufflink and rolled the sleeve so that it rested halfway up his bicep. His hand was like iron around Sherlock’s elbow, forcing it into his line of sight.

Sherlock tried to look away, to turn his head so that he wouldn’t see, but M held his head in place. There were no track marks to be found. Instead, a livid black spider adorned the delicate skin. The veins surrounding the tattoo were mottled black and throbbing angrily.

Sherlock suddenly understood.

“It was in the sauce.” 

M’s smile lacked all kindness. He ran his fingers through Sherlock’s curls, a sick imitation of a lover’s caress. “Such a smart boy.”

He leaned back, creating space. “Unzip my trousers, Sherlock.” The detective hurried to comply. His body was no longer his own to control. His hands shook as he slid the little metal tab down and drew M’s cock out through the hole. The man shuddered at the feel of Sherlock’s long, lithe fingers around him.

Sherlock’s head whipped around as the back of M’s hand connected with his cheek. “Did I tell you that you could touch?” His cheek stung with the echo of M’s slap.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock croaked. A tear ran down his cheek.

M took it as an apology, but Sherlock knew it was a tear of disgust. He was disgusted with himself. He was repulsed by the man in his lap, and his skin should be crawling at his touch. Caught between repulsion at his body’s responses and mortification at his weakness, he felt a few more frustrated tears fall. He’d known what would happen. What always happened.

He wouldn’t be able to control his body for another three hours. M had dosed his pasta and the antidote was all but meaningless now. His body would crave M’s above all others, whether his mind wanted him or not.

That was the cruel twist of being deemed M’s favorite. The man wasn’t satisfied to simply drug Sherlock and have his way. No. For him, M had concocted something special, something new. A neurochemical reaction that coded Sherlock’s sexual response to M’s DNA. When Sherlock had imbibed the drug, he hadn’t just been turned on by anything with a pulse. His body sought M’s and would burn itself down until he got it. He’d been marked by the spider. 

M clamped down on Sherlock’s earlobe to get his attention. “You wanted to touch me,” he chided, “so touch me. Wrap those ugly, alien fingers around my cock and let me fuck you.”

Sherlock did as he was told. M was hot and hard in his hand. The moment his fingers wrapped around him, M groaned with relief and bucked up into them. M finally released his grip on Sherlock’s hair, and the detective let his eyes close in relief.

A cruel slap to his other cheek forced his eyes open again as M clawed his hands over Sherlock’s shoulders. “You keep those pretty eyes on me, Sherlock,” he panted.

Sherlock’s cock throbbed, and he couldn’t keep from bucking forward, searching for friction. M knelt up to put his knees on Sherlock’s legs. The position effectively pinned his hips down, but M’s kneecaps dug into the soft meat of his thighs. It burned terribly, and he cried out.

M licked a line just under his jaw and quivered with pleasure at his cry. His cock grew harder in Sherlock’s hand, and he knew the man was close. He wished he could look away, but M would not allow it. His body screamed at him to grab and grind and come, but he couldn’t move. His eyes were still fixed on M, whose own eyes were fluttering with pleasure.

Sherlock gave a practiced twist of his wrist, skimming his palm over the glans of M’s cock, and the man was lost. He spasmed in Sherlock’s hand, and he felt hot stripes seep through the thin silk of his shirt.

M slumped forward, his face nestled in the crook of Sherlock’s neck. He was breathing hard, and each exhale ratcheted up Sherlock’s own arousal. He was keening now beneath M. His whole body shook with need. Without moving his head, M whispered to him.

“I have missed you, my pet.” He rolled his hips in one long slow motion, grinding his arse against Sherlock’s cock. The breath choked out of the detective. M sealed his lips over Sherlock’s and stole his breath for several moments until Sherlock thought he might pass out. Lights danced in his vision, and he didn’t know if it was too much arousal or not enough oxygen.

He looked frantically around and saw their reflection mirrored back at him in the restaurant window. How had he not recognized that it was mirrored glass? In his mind, he registered relief at the understanding that he was not visible to all of London. But when had the mirror been engaged? Before M straddled him? Before the kiss? He didn’t know.

M was talking, but he sounded far away now. Sherlock couldn’t understand him. His body still called for his touch, and Sherlock reached out. M batted his hand away easily and licked into his ear.

“I’ve a present for you, sweetheart,” he murmured softly. Or maybe he’d shouted. Sherlock was having a hard time parsing reality.

An enormous weight was lifted from him, and it took him several minutes to realize that he could move. He blinked open the eyes he hadn’t realized that he had closed.

The restaurant was deserted. The table in front of him was clean and reset. The lights in the kitchen were off, but his coat still hung on the hooks by the door, for which he was grateful. His shirt was streaked with M’s come, and he didn’t fancy traversing half of London marked by another man’s semen. He really didn’t want to explain it to John. 

He was still embarrassingly hard. He tried to ignore it but stumbled as he stood. His foot connected with a small brown parcel, and he only managed not to fall over by grabbing the back of the chair. The package was tied with frayed black string and a small printed card was pinned to it.

_The game is on. - M_

Sherlock sank to the floor and let the fear and frustration and arousal wash over him. His whole body shook with the effort of not touching himself. He clawed deep red lines into his own arms as he fought his body's impulses. Eventually, it was no use. He unzipped his trousers and palmed himself quickly. He lay on his side on the cold floor, turned his head away, and screwed his eyes shut. He'd do this as quickly as humanly possible. He felt arousal rise within him, mixing with shame. He knew he was going to come, and he hated it. He didn't want it. He didn't have a choice. In just a few minutes, his hips were grinding steadily, and, finally, he was coming in long spurts. 

When it was over, Sherlock hastily shoved his traitorous cock back into his pants and zipped his trousers. He wiped his palm on the floor and pushed himself to sitting. His body was satisfied, but he found no pleasure in it. The nausea and shock were pouring through now that the siren call of his flesh was sated. Sherlock pulled his knees to his chest, rested his forehead on them, and cried.


	5. What Dreams May Come

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for sticking with this story. Here be some answers. Hope you enjoy!

If John saw one more bloody case of piles, he was really going to lose it.

His phone had rung in the early hours offering him a morning shift at the clinic, and it had seemed like a welcome reprieve at the time. He’d answered his mobile while scrubbing fractured, restless sleep from his eyes. He’d yawned and stretched, which made his shoulder throb, and his cheek had felt raw, like he’d spent the night nuzzling a piece of coarse steel wool. It had taken John an embarrassing amount of time to realized that he’d fallen asleep in the sitting room with his face mashed into the corner of his armchair.

For the first time in ages, John had felt unmoored. The flat had been dark, and his coat had been the only one hanging by the door. The resounding silence had made him anxious, and he’d decided the proffered shift would be a good distraction. A decision he was now seriously regretting.

After three cups of coffee, a thirty-five-minute delay on the Underground, and four cases of bloody piles, the sun had finally fully risen. Its brilliant rays highlighted the bustle of the city outside the clinic windows.

John finished writing out an order for the necessary medication while answering his patient’s questions by rote. Having had the benefit of three practice runs already that morning, the conversation required very little of John’s attention. His mind wandered to his flatmate’s strange behavior.

He’d been surprised when Sherlock suggested they attend a matinee performance of the London Symphony Orchestra yesterday afternoon. They were semi-regular patrons of the Symphony, but Sherlock typically preferred the pomp and circumstance of an evening performance.

Halfway through Bach’s _Brandenburg_ Concerto No. 2, the detective had excused himself to use the loo, and when he hadn’t returned by intermission, John had known he’d been ditched. His first instinct had been to track Sherlock down and make his displeasure known, but he’d been annoyed and wouldn’t give Sherlock the satisfaction of ruining the outing. Besides, John had been enjoying the program immensely and had been especially looking forward to Tchaikovsky’s _Souvenir de Florence_. He’d figured there would be plenty of time for admonishments when he got home. But he’d returned to an empty Baker Street in the early evening. As evening rolled into night, John had started to grow concerned by Sherlock’s continued absence. There couldn’t have been any new leads on the case, and if there were, why would Sherlock have left him behind?

Piles Case Number 4 looked at John expectantly, and he realized that he’d been asked a question. He smiled as reassuringly as he could, handed over the signed order, and an information packet.

“It’s all in there, Mr. Wickham. You take those pills as prescribed, and you shouldn’t have any more problems.” Case Number 4 opened his mouth, and John felt his patience snap. He ushered the man bodily from his office.

“You have the number here at the surgery. If any issues arise, you let us know. Bye now, Mr. Wickham!”

Lisbeth, the nurse, glared at John for dumping a clearly agitated middle-aged pensioner on her. Without so much as a word, John shut himself in his office. He knew he’d been supremely unprofessional, and he usually prided himself on his professionalism. At least when John could be bothered to show up to work, he did. He squeezed his eyes shut and blocked out the gloom of his tiny, dim office. He needed to pull himself together.

John sat at his desk and unlocked the top drawer to withdraw his mobile. He waited a few moments for it to power on. Maybe it really was time for an upgrade. Sherlock had offered several times recently, but John had refused. The phone was perfectly functional, and there was a comfort to its plodding reliability. It reminded John of times past when he’d had to wait for dial-up. Back then, he’d had enough time to fix tea and toast while his computer sputtered to life. His mobile was not quite that slow, and the lag suited him just fine. However, it probably was a hinderance in an emergency. Besides, he was fed up with the barrage of insults from Sherlock regarding the substandard qualities of his phone whenever he “borrowed” it. Just because Sherlock often forgot his own or was too lazy to go and retrieve it, did not give him the right to berate John’s choice. He sighed and made a mental note to research options later that night. 

As the screen flared to life, the phone began to vibrate and ding. It seemed that John had received several notifications over the course of the morning. He breathed a sigh of relief. The only person that ever really bothered to text him was Sherlock. The berk must have surfaced and realized he’d left John behind. He ignored several email notifications and swiped the green text icon. Line upon line of grey text filled the screen.

 

 

John swiped out of the text chain and checked the rest of his notifications. None from Sherlock. His heart sank as he pressed the banner indicating he had several missed calls and a voicemail.

[VOICEMAIL]

_Voice message received today at 8:26 am from Greg Lestrade: John, you there? I’ve been ringing Sherlock since 7:30pm last night, but he’s not answering. I swear to God, if you two are striking off on your own again, I’ll have you benched from the next fifteen cases and damn my closed-case record. You have until 9:30am before I call in a drugs bust, _and I’ll personally make sure that Anderson and Donovan show up. *sigh*_ I hate to get the Met involved but… Fucking call me._

A feeling of unease gathered in John’s chest. Greg rarely texted John about a case. Sherlock was notoriously bad at returning texts, and John had willingly taken up the mantle of go-between for Sherlock and the world at large. But Sherlock always made an effort to reply when the message was case-related, and John had never seen his silence on such an occasion stretch beyond twenty-four hours.

The warning that had been picking away at the back of his mind all night snapped into clear focus. He knew things had been off with Sherlock lately. He didn’t know the exact cause, but he knew it was unusual for him to find the detective in the throes of a panic attack on the dank ground of an alleyway in Brixton.

John heaved a sigh as he realized it was now 9:31am. He fumbled with his mobile and dialed Greg, hoping that he hadn’t been able to start the fake drugs bust yet. That was the last thing they needed. Remembering the scene he had walked in on only a few nights ago, he was not at all confident that the flat would turn up clean. He was fairly confident they would find no street drugs, but John did not fancy having to explain Sherlock’s “antidote” to the Metropolitan Police. For one, Sherlock hadn’t been lying. Creating and self-administering a new drug was not exactly legal. But John was also wary of betraying Sherlock’s trust. It had clearly not been easy for the detective to confide in him. He had the distinct feeling that he was the first person Sherlock had made a conscious decision to tell. John also knew that he did not know the full picture. He had been given insight into the enigma that was his flatmate, but he knew that was not the whole story.

The line rang out several times before the call connected. John heard a scratching from the other side of the connection before Greg’ voice came through.

“Lestrade,” he said, clearly not having checked the caller ID.

John licked his chapped lips nervously. “Greg, hi. It’s John.” He heard Greg suck in a sharp breath. “Yeah. Sorry, mate. I’ve taken an extra shift at the clinic this morning and didn’t have a moment to check my phone until now. You said you had an update for us?”

If John had hoped to dissuade questions about Sherlock, he was sorely disappointed.

“Have you heard from Sherlock lately?” Greg’s voice was carefully measured in the way that always set John’s teeth on edge. He had cultivated a voice just like that. It was the voice he used to deliver bad news to patients and family members. Greg’s voice lacked the calculated nonchalance required to pull it off though. John swallowed.

“Not since yesterday afternoon. We went to the Symphony. Why?” He knew he wasn’t fooling anyone, but he could not make himself drop the pretense. They were worrying over nothing. Surely, they were just being overly protective, leaving no stone unturned. After all, Sherlock was a grown man. He was not obligated to check-in with them if he was on the scent of a promising lead, and he could take care of himself.

John was so deep in his own thoughts, that he belatedly realized Greg was talking.

“…usually answers about a case, but I wouldn’t be too worried. Probably he’ll turn up tonight with no idea he’s caused such a stir.” He waited for John to laugh along with him, but the laughter was caught in John’s throat. It lodged there behind the sob that was threatening to break free, so he swallowed it down. When his silence spooled out for several uninterrupted seconds, Greg seemed to understand that John was not going to reply.

“Right. So anyway, wanted to give you two an update on the case. You were absolutely right, John. The lab has identified three human femurs belonging to two different people. It took them bloody ages, but they’ve positively identified the remains of Alex Dumas. The other remains are still unidentified, but preliminary examination indicates they belong to a male of roughly the same age. The explosion has really bungled this whole investigation. The cause of death is undetermined, and we haven’t been able to locate a single motive or potential perpetrator. We know that two young people are dead from presumably unnatural causes, but without anything further, the only crime we can definitively prove is arson, and perhaps desecration of a corpse. We need him on this one.”

John could hear everything that Greg wasn’t saying. He was purposefully not asking if Sherlock was hunting down leads on his own, wanting to eliminate false leads before giving the information over to the Yard.   

“I’ll let you know when he finds something, Greg.” He knew this wouldn’t go very far toward reassuring the detective inspector, but it was all he could manage in the moment. John was gripping the edge of his desk so tight that his knuckles were bleached white, and his nails were leaving half-moon shaped gouges in the wooden surface.

“Right,” Greg’s voice was uncertain and confused.

“Talk soon, Greg.” With a poke of his index finger, John disconnected the call. His mind was already churning up an excuse to get him out of the remainder of his shift. He stuffed patient files into his bag, silently promising himself that he’d fill them out tonight once he’d sorted out the issue with Sherlock. He knew he was about to leave the clinic short-staffed again, and he refused to leave them with a flood of paperwork as well. 

He was preparing to call for Lisbeth when his mobile vibrated and chirped with an incoming text message from an unlisted number: _Your schedule has been cleared. There is a car waiting out front._

A frisson of fear shot up John’s spine. It had been ages since he’d been summoned by Mycroft, and the man had certainly never bothered to announce the impending kidnapping beforehand. He reread the message several times and felt a certain desperation underlying the words. Mycroft was always economical with language. He didn’t include superfluous information, but this message lacked all command. There was no haughty entitlement. It was matter-of-fact and purposeful. He might as well have texted COME QUICKLY!! in all caps.

John spared a moment to make sure his small medical kit was situated in the bottom of his bag before exiting his office. He’d learned long ago to always keep a travel size kit on his person. It came in handy more often than not when one worked with someone as reckless as Sherlock Holmes.

Outside his office, the clinic was a tornado of motion. There were children crying and papers fluttering. Lisbeth was trying to herd a senile old man into a waiting examination room, and the receptionist’s phone was a switchboard of blinking red lights. 

In the wake of Mycroft’s message, however, John found that he could not find it in himself to feel guilty. All he felt was a deep well of terror. What could have happened to shake the great Mycroft Holmes?

John caught the receptionist’s eye as he headed toward the door. Her face contorted into a grimace of pain and empathy. God only knows what Mycroft’s people told her when they called, but John was grateful to be leaving without a fuss. He nodded his thanks and hitched his bag higher up on his shoulder.

As he stepped out of the clinic, he was buffeted by a wave of pedestrians hurrying down the street. He huffed in annoyance and pulled himself up against the building until they’d passed. When the sidewalk cleared, John could see a sleek black car idling at the curb. A nondescript man exited the driver’s seat, circled the car, and held the back door open. He took the bag from John and deposited it in the trunk while John slid inside.

The door snapped shut just as he was settling into the fine leather seat. John was already gathering his plan of attack against Anthea. Surely, this time, he would be able to get some information out of her before he arrived in an abandoned car park or nuclear power plant.

“What’s he done now?” John asked cheekily, leaving the question intentionally vague so that Anthea would need to ask for clarification or choose her own meaning. This was a strategy he’d learned from Sherlock. People’s assumptions were often extremely revealing.

John was startled out of his train of thought by the slightly exasperated sound of a throat being cleared. The voice was much too deep and much too haughty to be Anthea’s. John’s eyes swept across the floor to a perfectly polished pair of brogues. His eyes continued to sweep up the tailored lines of a three-piece suit until they landed on a familiar face. Those disconcertingly sharp eyes bored into John’s own, and he felt himself speak before he even knew what he was saying.

“Why are _you_ here?” John flinched at his callous and tactless opening. “Why are you _here?”_ He tried to rephrase, but he wasn’t sure the slightly altered inflection was having much affect. “I mean,” he trudged on, “why are you meeting me here, like this. Normally, you have me picked up and brought to you. In fact, we’ve never met in your car. Why…”

John’s face paled as he took in the facts before him. Mycroft Holmes sat in the seat opposite, and although his posture and demeanor were par for the course, there were noticeable signs that something was amiss. First of all, Mycroft’s perfectly tailored suit was askew. The trousers were wrinkled and creased from sitting. His waist coat was half unbuttoned, a detail John could only see because Mycroft was not wearing his suit coat. The coat was folded on the seat next to him, and his tie was lying across it as if Mycroft had simply cast it aside. His shirt had several buttons undone at the top and his hair was a mess, as if he’d been running his hands through it.

While John stared, Mycroft pressed a small button on the console next to him. A wooden panel on the side of the car lowered to reveal a small bar, from which Mycroft retrieved two tumblers and an impressively expensive bottle of scotch. He filled the glasses and handed one to John before downing his own in one go.

John took his without a word. He held it up to admire the amber liquid inside, but the glass was shaking so hard that the scotch sloshed around, threatening to spill over the sides. He shoved the glass between his knees and wiped his sweaty palm on the thigh of his trousers. He gripped his leg hard enough to still the tremors.

“Is he alive?” John’s frankness no longer surprised him. This was the heart of the matter. At this moment, there was only one thing he needed to know, and his continued existence relied on the answer to this one question.

Mycroft leaned forward slightly and shifted in his seat. “He’s alive, John.”

John took a moment, breathed deeply, and forced his brain to think past the white fog engulfing it. “What happened?” he asked breathily.

Mycroft raised his glass to his lips again. His face warped with shock and disgust when he remembered it was already empty. He put it back on the bar before turning to John. His hands fiddled with the clasp on his briefcase, but his eyes never left John’s face. John could see him considering his options.

“Mycroft, tell me.” Finally, a bit of steel stole into his voice, making the request more of a command. It made John feel more himself, more in control. It had the added benefit of seeming to shock Mycroft into action as well. He finally flipped open the clasp on his briefcase and withdrew a single file. It was an unassuming manila folder that could not contain more than twenty sheets of paper.

“What do you know about my brother’s past?” Mycroft asked, back to his usual disdainful distance. Somehow, it put John at ease, like a return to their typical status quo.

“I’m not entirely sure that’s relevant.” John bristled, instinctively defensive.

“I assure you I would not ask unless it were imperative, John. I cannot explain properly unless I know what you have been told.”

Mycroft seemed to be telling the truth, besides, he was sure that none of what he was about to say would be news to Mycroft. “Well, he told me how he became a detective – meeting Greg and all that, getting clean…” 

Mycroft frowned. “And before that?”

“Erm, he left for university at sixteen, studied chemistry, dropped out a bit before graduation…”

“John, what has my brother told you about his personal life.”

John squirmed and fought with himself. This felt much closer to a betrayal of Sherlock’s confidences. He remained silent while he thought about the right way to word what he was going to say, settling on phrasing that was specific enough to convey his knowledge but vague enough that someone who did not know already would not be let in on the information.

“I know about the hypno and the related incidents. Sherlock’s unusual reaction to that specific drug. I know about Wiggins and the antidote…” John trailed off unsure of how much more to say.

Mercifully, Mycroft cut him off. “He’s told you more than I expected. That’s good - gives us a place to start.” He withdrew a page from the file and turned it to John. It was a grainy image, probably taken by surveillance of some sort, but John failed to see anything of significance in the frame. It showed a crowd of people waiting on the platform at Piccadilly station. Mycroft, sensing his incomprehension, pointed to the man walking out of the right side of the image.

His face was captured thanks to the security light fixed to the wall above the figure. The man was short with scruffy black hair and second-hand clothes. He was completely insignificant until John noticed the intense scrutiny of his beetle-black eyes. They belied a razor-sharp intelligence and hunger. The fierceness of his gaze gave him a lethal, powerful aura that the people around him must have felt. John had not noticed their apprehension before. Several heads were turned to watch the man and many people hunched closer to their groups, trying not to attract his attention. A father was pulling a young boy, about three years old, out of the man’s path.

“Who is that?” John asked. His heart raced at the very thought of that man within a hundred yards of Sherlock. But with Mycroft’s previous questioning, John was certain this man had played a large role in his friend’s past. How had he never come up?

Mycroft returned the photograph to the file. “That is James Moriarty, although I am told he prefers to be known only as ‘M’ these days. But then, Sherlock always did go in for a touch of drama.”

“Sherlock and he were...friends?” John was not sure what point Mycroft was trying to make, but Mycroft’s eyes flashed with fury. It was only a moment, quickly hidden away behind his typical calm exterior, but John saw it.

“Sorry. Not a friend, obviously.” He thought back to the details he had picked out of the image - shabby, second-hand clothes pointed toward something less than middle class but there was a certain hunger about him - “Dealer?” 

Mycroft gave him an appraising look. “Closer. At the beginning of their acquaintance, I believe Sherlock considered him to be a confidant of sorts. After a year, they began a romantic entanglement, and six months later, Sherlock left university. I lost track of them for several years afterward. When I found him again, Sherlock was...” Mycroft’s voice trembled with words unsaid. “By then, Sherlock was snared deep in Moriarty’s criminal web. He was not in control of himself and could not see a way out. I worried about the lengths he might go to in order to escape.”

John absorbed this information with horror. To imagine Sherlock young and vulnerable, out of control and suicidal - it didn’t bear imagining really. “But you got him out?”

“I tried,” Mycroft’s voice was pleading, imploring John to believe him. “You have to understand, I did not hold the office I do now. I had some influence then but not nearly enough to orchestrate a rescue operation. In the end, I couldn’t move fast enough.”

John’s breathing was laboured with dread, though logically, he knew Sherlock had survived whatever foolhardy thing he’d done. It was still not easy to hear.

“Sherlock used Moriarty’s obsession against him. He knew the man valued Sherlock above all his possessions.”

“He’s a person!” John shouted. It was loud in the confined space of the car.

Mycroft raised his hands in surrender. “I know, but Moriarty did not see him that way. To him, Sherlock was a unique object of priceless value. An object that belonged to him.”

John gritted his teeth against the arguments he wanted to hurl at Mycroft. It wouldn’t do any good. They were discussing the past, and try as he might, John could not change it. “So, what happened? How did Sherlock get free?”

Mycroft’s lips pressed into a tight, thin line. “He jumped,” Mycroft swallowed audibly, “off of a three-story building. It was a miracle he survived at all. The rehabilitation took months, and the complications persist to this day.”

John shuddered at the mental image. “So, Moriarty thinks he died?”

Mycroft shook his head quickly. “No. Moriarty knew he survived. He was livid that my brother had tried to deprive him. There was an altercation in Sherlock’s hospital room. Apparently, Sherlock told him that he would never stop trying to take his own life if Moriarty insisted on being a part of it.” Mycroft’s lip curled in dogged admiration. “Don’t you see, John? He left Moriarty with a choice. A world without Sherlock in it or a world where Sherlock lived a life independent of Moriarty.”

John finally understood. “Moriarty was forced to choose the best of two bad options.”

Mycroft’s head rested back against the seat and his eyes slipped shut. “Yes.”

John didn’t relax. While he was relieved that Sherlock had escaped that sick bastard, Mycroft hadn’t explained what that had to do with Sherlock’s recent disappearance. If Moriarty had agreed to stay out of Sherlock’s life, why was the story relevant?

John’s stomach plummeted as he considered the desperation Sherlock must have felt standing on the edge of the roof of that building. What must be nipping at your heels to make you step into the air and take the plunge rather than step back onto solid ground?

The car rolled to a stop, and Mycroft’s eyes snapped open. John looked out the window, curious as to their destination. He was shocked to see a large, ivy-covered manor. He hadn’t noticed them travelling so far out of London. “Is he here?”

Mycroft nodded, and John threw open the car door. He had no clue what was going on, but now that a single wooden door stood between him and Sherlock, he felt certain he was about to find out.

Mycroft caught up with him halfway to the house and gripped him by the arm. “John.” The tone of his voice made John stop and turn. “He won’t be able to give you the answers you seek.”

John flushed with indignation. “Sherlock is much more capable than you give him credit for, Mycroft. He’ll tell me what I need to know. Anything else is his to do with what he likes.”

Mycroft twirled his umbrella uncomfortably. “You misunderstand me. I’m sure he would tell you if he could, John, but my brother is regrettably under sedation at the moment. You need to prepare yourself. Sherlock is going to need someone in his corner. Can I count on you to be that person?”

John stood up straight and snapped his shoulders back, his military stance coming as naturally as if his service days were only yesterday. He met Mycroft’s eyes with a steely gaze of his own. “Always.”


	6. Of Vapor and Smoke

Before John could so much as reach for the door handle, the large wooden panel swung aside to reveal a matronly woman with grey hair and hard eyes. She stood aside to let the men enter, then briskly shut the door behind them. Turning to thank the unnamed woman, John realized she had already excused herself and disappeared. 

"Well that was..." he fumbled for the right word to convey the jarring experience.

"Competent? Convenient?" Mycroft supplied. 

John stared disapprovingly at him.

"No, I was going to say strange, maybe even a little creepy, but definitely not convenient."

He tried to convey his displeasure at a human being categorized as convenient, but the admonishment seemed not to land. Probably the man was feigning ignorance. John could not bring himself to believe that someone as intelligent as Mycroft Holmes failed to grasp the implication behind his statement. 

Annoyed by the man's antics, John looked around the large entry way for any sign of Sherlock. He was surprised to find none. There was no tell-tale Belstaff hanging by the door. There was no combative invective being hurled down the halls. In fact, the manor was eerily quiet. John's anger flared again as he realized he'd have to stoop to asking Sherlock's brother to show him to his friend. 

Mycroft, meanwhile, busied himself with disposing of his still-folded suit jacket and tie on the nearby bench and rolled his shirt sleeves so they rested just below his elbows. 

"Mrs. Turner keeps a tidy house," Mycroft said, apropos of nothing. At John's questioning stare, he elaborated. "The charming caretaker turned housekeeper you just met." 

John could hardly agree that the strange interaction amounted to an introduction, but he didn't care to argue with Mycroft at the moment. The man was taking an infuriatingly long time with his cuff links. 

When he was finally finished, he turned and must have read the frustration on John's face because he simply started down the hall on the right. 

John debated the odds that Mycroft was taking him to Sherlock. Since the man had deigned to come and collect the doctor himself, John was fairly certain that the man did not object to his attending Sherlock's bedside. However, there was a slight chance that he had been driven out to an abandoned manor in the countryside so that Mycroft could dispose of him once and for all. 

Mycroft glanced back, and the corner of his mouth tightened in something akin to a smirk. 

"I would not have wasted the scotch if I meant to harm you, Dr. Watson. Sherlock's room is just the end of this hall." 

John walked down the long, narrow hall like a man headed to his own execution. He had no idea what to expect upon entry. The hall itself projected an air of sullen superiority with its rich tapestries and gilt-framed oil portraits.

 _Who_ _even_ _had_ _oil_ _portraits_ _anymore_?

All too soon, John’s feet carried him to a foreboding wood door. Standing before the hulking behemoth, he felt an inextricable urge to run as far as possible from the unknown quagmire ensconced behind the door. The questions loomed one after another in John’s mind.  _What had happened to his friend? Why had Mycroft brought him here? Why had Sherlock ditched him before, and would he be glad to see him now?_

No answers were forthcoming, though it seemed clear that Mycroft knew exactly what he was thinking. There was nothing else for it then. John grit his teeth and turned the brass knob.

The door swung open to reveal a shockingly cluttered room that flouted the obviously patrician hand which had furnished the rest of the house. A long table ran the length of the room and a tall, skinny tower of immaculately spaced shelves was wedged in the corner. The shelves held an inventive variety of beakers, retorts, and flasks. The table itself was strewn with maps, diagrams, several old CPUs, an assortment of monitors, a keyboard missing several keys and a mouse with the connector cord snipped in half.

A large poster of the periodic table hung proudly on the wall opposite the makeshift lab table. It had obviously been there a long time as the edges were beginning to curl back from the wall. John could just make out the form of a map beneath it. Upon closer inspection, he was able to identify several landmarks connected by a dotted line ending in a red X. His heart lurched at the thought that he was currently standing in what could only be Sherlock's childhood bedroom. His mind filled with imaginings of his friend as a curly-haired young boy running through the fields around the manor with a wooden sword, an eye patch, and a lumpy sweater he only wore as a concession to his long-suffering mother. It saddened John to see that the treasure map had been intentionally pasted over. It seemed to indicate a rather abrupt change of heart, though John noted that Sherlock had not removed it altogether. It was like catching a rare glimpse of the beating heart of the man normally kept well-hidden beneath a wall of logic and reason. 

The only indication that this room was meant to be slept in was a single bed shoved aside and wedged in the corner furthest from the lab equipment. Balled up paper littered the floor along with chewed up biros and discarded tomes. A single frayed robe hung on a solitary hook near the door, a level of care not afforded to the chaos covering the rest of the room.

The room was quintessentially Sherlock, and John momentarily forgot his reason for entering as he took in the details around him. A not-so-subtle throat clearing from the hallway reminded him quite quickly, and he made his way to stand beside the bed. John looked down at the gaunt figure and struggled to identify his friend.

Sherlock’s face was a sickly grey and his jaw was clenched even in his unconscious state. There was a delicate tremor running through his frame, despite the blankets layered on him, and he was sweating profusely. It suddenly occurred to John that he had never seen Sherlock seriously ill. Usually, he flopped around the flat at the first sign of a throat tickle and demanded even more tea and attention than usual.

By contrast, the man in front of him was silent and still, apart from the tremor. He could not find any obvious abrasions or injuries – likely a fever of some sort then. It scared John to see him so pallid. He turned toward the door, where Mycroft was hovering with his arms crossed.

“What happened?” John asked in a carefully measured voice. “I know you know, Mycroft. You pretend to know everything that happens with him. So, go on, prove your omniscience. Just this once, show that you interfered to the level you always imply, and tell me what the hell happened.”

John’s voice had dropped dangerously low and his teeth were grinding with restraint. The infuriating bureaucrat merely uncrossed his arms and fixed John with a penetrating stare that, for once, did not unnerve him. John refused to back down, knowing that the information he sought was imperative if he was to help Sherlock.

Whatever Mycroft read from his face seemed to convince the man. He gestured for John to sit in the chair near the bed while he stood nearby, looking down at his brother.

“We have left the realm of charted medical science, John,” he began. “You are aware of Sherlock’s association with James Moriarty and the drug Hypno-rophenol. I believe my brother went as far as to allude to the unique effect it had on him; however…”

Mycroft’s hand, which had moved to brush the wet fringe back from his brother’s face, hovered in the empty space between them. With a shake of his head, he withdrew the hand and slipped it into his own pocket, as if he needed to be physically restrained from such motions.

“This is a new development. Sherlock has been exposed to another dose of Hypno.”

John sucked in a quick breath at the thought. “But I thought you said that Moriarty agreed to leave him be. I thought you said he was safe!”

Mycroft nodded wearily. “He  _was_  safe. Apparently, that is no longer the case. It is not yet clear what circumstances have changed to allow Moriarty to risk that which he was unwilling to risk before. Sherlock could likely tell us, but he is in no state to do so.”

John had been checking Sherlock over while Mycroft was speaking. One thing was immediately evident to him.

“He's not unconscious. You’re keeping him sedated. Why?”

A shadow passed over Mycroft’s face. “For his own protection.”

John’s fist clenched at his side.

“He’s told you a million times! That is not your decision to make. This should be something he decides for himself.”

He moved to unhook the IV, but Mycroft quickly stayed his hand.

“Don’t. John, listen to me!”

The bureaucrat's voice was mostly unchanged, but John detected a note of desperation bleeding through. The realization that Mycroft was almost pleading with him stayed his hand for the time being. 

At that moment, a nondescript man in a nondescript black suit appeared in the doorway.

“Sir?”

Mycroft nodded, and the man retreated.

“My apologies, John, but my time is up.  I won’t be gone longer than three days. You’ll have direct access to my private line via any phone in this house.”

He spoke rapidly as he straightened up, tucking his shirt into his trousers and glancing around for anything he might have set aside.

John was struck momentarily dumb.

“You haven’t told me a single thing! I don’t have any idea – Mycroft wait!"

He struggled to make sense of the abrupt shift that had just taken place. There were facts he needed to know. John's mind raced to sort the most important questions from his own inane curiosity.

"Without any details regarding what happened, I have no idea how to start helping him! You have to slow down and...”

Mycroft paused in the doorway for a moment. “He trusts you, John.” 

Without another word, he turned the corner and was gone.

John cursed under his breath and turned back to the bed. Nodding to himself, he unhooked the sedative and settled into the nearby chair to wait. He thought back to the last time he had seen Sherlock. If he had left the concert when he'd realized his friend had ditched out on the performance, maybe he would have been able to help mitigate or prevent whatever horrific event had resulted in the rumpled grey figure in front of him. 

John was so lost in thought, that he hardly noticed Mrs. Turner slip into the room. She walked right to the bed, straightened the sheets, plumped Sherlock's pillow, and patted the back of his hand reassuringly. Then, she disappeared into the hallway, only to reappear a moment later with a steaming cup of tea and several finger sandwiches. John tried to be appreciative, but he couldn't stomach either. Mrs. Turner rested her hand on his shoulder in complete understanding before shutting the door on her way out. The thud of the door reverberated and lent a finality that echoed through the room and rested heavily in John's chest. He almost wished she would come back and fill the silence with idle chatter, though she did not seem the type. His heart ached for missing their own landlady who would certainly have sat and prattled on about nothing just to provide the comfort she knew her boys would never verbally request. 

John's folded hands rested in his lap with his forearms braced on his thighs. The nail bed of the thumb on his left hand was in a rather deplorable state. The beginnings of a hangnail irritated the dry skin around it, turning the area a puffy swollen red. He chuckled darkly as he remembered Sherlock extolling the virtues of a proper skincare regiment. At the time, John had scoffed, but he'd come to see the folly of his stubbornness more and more recently. God, he was tired. He rested his forehead on his clasped hands and felt the stretch throughout his spine. John let his dry, watery eyes flicker shut. Just for a minute.

 John’s chin drooped toward his chest, and he jerked abruptly awake. He was shocked to find the room dark. He’d slept for some time. John cursed himself and focused his attention on the bed. His hand stuttered to a halt halfway toward rubbing the sleep from his eye. Sherlock’s penetrating gaze was fixed on him.

“Um, hi,” John said dumbly.

Sherlock made no move to acknowledge that John had spoken. He just continued to stare. John fidgeted and cast around for something to say. He had a million questions, but none seemed particularly appropriate for easing into the undoubtedly difficult conversation that would follow. Every interrogative he formulated in his mind sounded accusatory, at best, and outright hostile, at worst. John chewed his lip thoughtfully.

Unable to offer decent conversation, John reached for Sherlock’s wrist to take his pulse. He seemed a little less grey, though he could barely tell in the shadowy room. John’s fingers closed around Sherlock’s wrist, his thumb pressing into the delicate underside. He could feel a strong, vibrant, if slightly erratic, pulse.

Sherlock flinched violently and wrenched his wrist away. Startled, John searched his friend’s face for some sign as to how to handle the situation. He had no idea what had happened, but it was clear that Sherlock had been greatly affected. Not, that he would ever admit it. John hadn’t the first idea as to how to begin this conversation, but a horrific hypothesis was forming in his mind.

Mycroft had all but confirmed that Sherlock had met with Moriarty. Given the information Sherlock had shared with John about his past, and the details Mycroft had provided about the psychology of the man, John’s sickening suspicions were beginning to grow. That knowledge combined with Sherlock’s aversion to touch, an aversion John had only ever seen in conjunction with the hypno antidote, set cascading alarms off in his head. He was a doctor after all. As a medical student he’d been through a sexual assault and trauma rotation where he was taught to track signs and spot tells. Sherlock’s current behavior was fairly textbook.

“Why are you here?”

Sherlock’s voice was raspy from disuse, but there was an unmistakable air of scorn in the question. The brashness of the inquiry derailed John’s train of thought.

“Excuse me?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and flopped onto his back to stare at the ceiling.

“You heard the question. I do hate to repeat myself.”

The man’s voice was flat and void of warmth. Anyone but John would have missed the hairline tremor of uncertainty underlying the bravado.

“I came because you are my friend, and you are unwell.”

Sherlock considered that for a moment.

“Admirable sentiment but not an answer to the question I asked. How did you come to be _here_?”

John nodded his understanding. “I realized fairly quickly that you had left me at the symphony, thanks for that by the way, but I wasn’t truly worried until you didn’t come home that night. I tried calling and texting, but I got no answer. Frankly, I was relieved when you brother – “

“My brother!” Sherlock’s eyes flashed with anger. “Tiresome meddling idiot! I specifically requested you not be involved, but does he ever listen to me? Of course not!”

Sherlock flicked back the sheets and made to get out of the bed.

“Sherlock,” John said quietly. He hadn’t wanted to reach for his friend again, given the poor reaction he’d received last time, but he was determined that Sherlock should remain in bed. Surprisingly, the man stopped.

“Please lie down. When you’ve got your strength back, you can plot 100 ways to get revenge on your brother, and I promise to help, alright?”

Sherlock scowled, knowing he was being placated, but he lay back down. John settled back in his chair and decided that he would very much like to set fire to the damn thing. The metal beneath his thighs was cold and unyielding. It felt much too clinical to belong here.

Despite his discomfort, sitting down did offer John one advantage – he was now face-to-face with Sherlock. He used the momentary reprieve to watch the rise and fall of his friend’s chest. It was in no way a medically valid measurement, but the respiration was even enough to appease John for the time being.

As he continued his visual survey, a further complication became readily apparent. Just below Sherlock’s navel, the bed sheets were tented quite visibly, a feature made noticeably more prominent by Sherlock’s gaunt frame. John watched the realization flicker across his friend’s face, draining what color John had managed to restore.

Hoping to derail the impending strop, John changed the topic of conversation.

“Why didn’t you want me here?”

He tried to keep the question soft, but he was resigned to the current of vulnerability he couldn’t completely banish.

Sherlock’s fingers worried the edge of the sheets. Silence stretched between the two men for several minutes before his fingers stopped moving. He drew in a breath, steeling himself, but did not turn to look at John. His reply was quiet and muffled. If John had not been sitting so close, he would not have heard it.

“Didn’t want you to see.”

“See what?” John asked. “You?”

Sherlock nodded, the movement rigid and quick. John leaned forward, trying to catch his eye. 

“What did you think would happen if I saw you, Sherlock?”

Sherlock refused to meet John’s eye. His gaze remained stubbornly fixed on the ceiling.

“Some things can’t be unseen, John.” His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. “No matter how you might want to forget them.”

John was not entirely certain they were talking about him anymore, or about the present for that matter.

“So you, what – thought I couldn’t handle it? I am a doctor you know.”

John had hoped to make Sherlock smile, but the man’s face twisted with sadness instead.

“How do you survive it, John?” he asked with desperation, all pretense abandoned.

“Survive what?”

“You care so much. All the time. About everything. How do you keep from being crushed by it all?”

John thought of all the pain that caring had brought him. He thought of Harry and the backlog of spiteful voicemails saved on his mobile that he couldn’t bring himself to erase. Despite the hateful words, each message was another piece of proof that Harry was still alive.

He thought about the Army. He thought about the things he’d done and the faces of the people he hadn’t saved. His dreams were still often filled with rivers of blood flowing through the streets of London, chasing him until they had drowned everyone he still cared about.

And then he thought about Sherlock. A slow smile stole across his face and the answer floated readily to the front of his mind. He cleared his throat and answered steadily.

“You find the thing that makes caring worthwhile.” 

Sherlock’s eyes slowly unglued themselves from the ceiling to steal a glance at John. His eyes betrayed his surprise, and John noticed a deeper, more complex emotion swimming beneath the surface, but he had little time to puzzle over it.

Sherlock was doing his best not to writhe, but he was failing. His hips gave short, stuttering thrusts that left him more frustrated than ever. Clearly something would have to be done. Sherlock blushed a deep red.

“It’s because of that fucking poison. I’m sure Mycroft didn’t resist crowing over the fact that I got myself dosed again. He probably thinks I did it on purpose, that I liked it. And who wouldn’t think that? Look at how I’m reacting, hmm? “

John hunched forward and gripped his knees tightly, ignoring his own sweaty palms. “I don’t think that."

Sherlock shot him a withering look. 

“Oi, listen! I really don’t think that. It’s obvious to me that you’re not enjoying what’s happening here. I don’t know the details of what happened, but Mycroft mentioned that this time was different. Will you talk to me? Between the two of us, maybe we can figure this out, yeah? I want to help.” 

Sherlock curled in on himself and sneered.

“Oh, you want to _help me_ , John! How do you propose to do that? Did you want to offer your hand or your mouth?”

John’s jaw dropped in astonishment. These were not the words of a sexually-inexperienced man. These words were dripping with desire. John’s brain fought to remember the seriousness of the situation but the sound of his friend’s gravelly voice saying such blatantly sexual things! He was lost. Damn if he wasn’t well past turned on.

“What you must think of me! Do you think I’d rub off on just anyone who walked in here and offered? What do you take me for, an animal?! I don’t need your pity, and I certainly don’t need your help, _doctor_.”

Suddenly, John remembered his voice.

“No need to be an ass. You know that’s not what I meant. I thought we could work together to get a new antidote ready for you, but what the hell do I know, right?”

John’s chest heaved with anger.

“You treat me like shit, and I let you. What the fuck does that say about me, hmm?”

Sherlock was the first to break the silence.

“John?”

“Mmm.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Mmm.”

He struggled to readjust the pillow beneath his head before turning back to John and infusing his voice with as much sincerity as he could muster, he tried again.

“I am truly sorry for the way I’ve treated you.”

“When?”

“What?”

“You’re sorry for how you treated me when? Today? Yesterday? At the symphony?”

“Yes! I’m sorry for all of it.”

John took a deep breath that hissed out through his clenched teeth.

“I know you’re sorry, but I can’t keep forgiving you only to get left behind again. Just promise me that you’ll stop ditching me to go off and do dangerous shit by yourself.” 

“John…”

“What, Sherlock? It’s easy. Either you agree, or you don’t.”

“I can’t." 

John’s shoulders slumped in defeat.

“You can’t what?”

“I can’t promise to never leave you behind. If given the choice between my safety and yours, your safety will always come first.”

John’s eyes flashed dangerously.

“Oh, you’re protecting me now. Is that it?”

Sherlock’s jaw tightened at John’s mocking tone.

John paced the length of the room several times, his arms swinging in time at his sides. On his fifteenth circuit, he stopped on the far side of the room and gripped his hair.

“Fuck this. Yeah, fuck this,” he muttered to himself and stormed out of the room. The door slammed shut behind him, and John wondered how he’d suddenly become a liability.


	7. All's Not Well

John stomped blindly down hallway after hallway, not truly seeing the house around him. He could feel his pulse beating in his temple, the last few moments playing on a loop in his mind. He saw vividly the defeated slump of Sherlock’s shoulders and the pained look on his face as he murmured  _I’m sorry._ Anger flashed through him.

How come Sherlock was always the one to get his consideration? Why did he take great pains to accommodate the man who never reciprocated? Was it so much to ask that just this once, the great Sherlock Holmes stop and consider John’s feelings?

_I can’t promise to never leave you behind._

John’s whole world was falling apart. He lashed out blindly, upending a silver bowl off a nearby table. There was absolutely nothing preventing Sherlock from making that promise. There was no loaded gun being held to his head, no threat of harm forcing his hand. He could choose to include John – to tell him the things he needed to know. The man simply would not. As much as Sherlock may claim otherwise, it was a choice. And Sherlock was not choosing John. He was not choosing them. He was not choosing their life, their career, Baker Street – he was not choosing all of it.

John was so consumed by his own indignation that it took him several moments to realize that he’d stopped moving. Looking around, he realized he had no idea where he was. The hallway ended abruptly. The rich mahogany paneling of the walls was undisturbed by the paraphernalia that adorned the rest of the house. In this wing, there were no silver bowls, oil paintings, or other gaudy baubles to be seen. In fact, there were no windows or doors that could be discerned.

The mysterious alcove distracted him from his thoughts. Why the hell would anyone have a hallway that dead-ended in an empty chamber?

John bent forward and ran his finger along the wall searching for any signs of concealment. He found none. After covering the entire alcove twice, he was forced to give up. He rested his forehead against the nearest panel and shut his eyes.

What the hell was he doing pawing at the walls? Maybe he really was losing his mind. Lately, he was feeling as if his life was slipping away. Piece by piece he was losing the life he’d built with Sherlock. He was running out of time. Always in his mind, the clock was ticking down hours, minutes, and seconds until he was left alone in the miserable life he was destined to inhabit. After being invalided home, meeting Sherlock had been a miracle. He’d known it at the time. He hadn’t deserved to have that mad, brilliant man in his life and now the bill had come due.

John was breathing heavily now, the panic rising. The ticking grew louder until he could hear nothing else. The paneling beneath him began to move. It felt as though the wall was swinging inward. He stumbled, trying to keep himself from collapsing to the ground.

After what seemed like an eternity, the room stopped spinning. John had just managed to keep his feet under him. He felt slightly nauseous and spent several minutes focusing on slowing his breathing.

When he opened his eyes, he was surprised to find that the alcove had disappeared. In its place was a cavernous study. A large stone fireplace adorned the far side of the chamber. There were no personal items in the room, but computer monitors displaying different views of the manor filled an entire wall. A real-time transcription program was running alongside the closed-circuit video so that John could read the words of the conversation that Mrs. Turner was currently engaged in on the phone in the kitchen.

Given the highly sophisticated nature of the technology in the room and the fact that the entire chamber had been secreted behind a wall, John felt reasonably safe in assuming that he’d just discovered the home office of Mycroft Holmes.

His eyes flicked quickly across the array of screens, trying to find a frame of reference for his eventual journey back through the winding labyrinthian house. He saw a palatial dining room complete with crystal chandelier, an indoor pool that must be full Olympic-sized, and a glass conservatory filled with lush green vegetation he was fairly certain could never be native to the cold, rocky isle that was Britain.

Had he passed these rooms earlier? How had he not noticed the opulence around him? Surely, he would have noticed the display of weapons. The room was so massive that he was sure he’d be well within his rights to call it an armory. John was fixated on a particular musket in the collection when movement on the adjacent screen caught his eye.

A white-tiled bathroom filled his vision. A grand pedestal sink was center-frame while the entire far wall was adorned with the steady flow of a waterfall shower. Steam was curling lightly off the streaming current, fogging over the mirror. But none of that held John’s fascination the way the fully-clothed solitary figure crouching in the corner did. Sherlock’s halo of dark curls grew damp and stuck to the man’s forehead, but he paid them no mind. He remained motionless in his cramped position.

Fearing that the feed had frozen, John reached toward the keyboard intent on refreshing the connection. However, the sharp sound of a fractured sob stayed his hand. The echo of was loud in the nearly silent room, amplifying its effect. John waited, not quite trusting his senses. Had he really heard that or was he imagining it?

His denial dissipated as Sherlock’s torso began to convulse. His body was wracked with the strength of his own despair. 

His arms wrapped around his ribs and he seemed to be holding himself silent through sheer force of will. Sherlock rocked precariously back on his heels, wobbled for a moment, and fell hard on his tailbone.

John didn’t waste another moment. He had no idea where he was, where Sherlock was, or how to bridge the distance between the two places, but he had no intention of waiting to find out. He strode back out into the alcove and down the long stretch of hallway. He assumed Sherlock hadn’t ventured too far from his bedroom. After all, he was physically weak and not in top form. John clung to that desperate hope as he tried his best to retrace his steps.

He took the next two left turns, walked down a flight of stairs, and found himself at a crossroads. Four different passageways branched off of the vestibule in which he stood. John looked back and forth between the options, but he had no inkling of familiarity with any of them. There was no light or sound to guide him, and his impatience to get to Sherlock was driving his decisions. He had abandoned all reason the moment Sherlock’s legs had given out beneath him.

The only thing that mattered to John now was finding Sherlock and making sure that he was alright. He silently berated himself for leaving his friend in such a vulnerable state. Mycroft had made it very clear that Sherlock had been through something traumatic, though John was still not entirely sure what precisely had happened. All he knew was that he’d made the wrong decision. He’d abandoned Sherlock when he needed him most, and he was not about to fail the man again.

Using what little he could see through the nearby windows, John charted the course most likely to lead him in the direction he needed to go. It had been a long time since he’d had cause to use his wilderness skills. He was surprised to find himself so rusty. He’d become complacent, happy to follow in Sherlock’s wake as the git led the way.

It wasn’t often that John contemplated his own competence, but he had to admit it felt damn good not to be paralyzed by indecision. He felt a spasm of guilt at the thrill of satisfaction that coursed through him. A wave of relief washed over him as he began to hear the distant sound of running water. His steps sped up as he followed the sound. His mind raced with possibilities. He really had no way of knowing what he would find behind that bathroom door.

John didn’t hesitate. He threw open the door, barely registered the thump it made as it struck the wall. His eyes searched eagerly for his friend.

Sherlock hadn’t moved. He was still crumpled on the floor in the corner of the room. John slowly made his way over and sat as close as he could without actually touching the man.

He let the silence spool out between them. Now that he was here, he felt no pressure to force a conversation. It was vital that Sherlock understood that John would always be right next to him, no matter what. He wiped his palms on his trousers and stared straight ahead, not wanting to burden Sherlock with too much direct attention.

Sherlock’s body tensed as he noticed John beside him, but he did not raise his gaze from the tile between his knees. He sucked in a shaky lungful of air that wheezed in his chest. His hands were shaking imperceptibly, so he shoved them under his thighs. Several minutes passed before he felt able to speak.

“You’re here,” he breathed in unconcealed wonder.

His statement was fragile as the vapor swirling around them in the steamy room. John heard him though and was consumed by fear at his friend’s uncharacteristically emotional display. Somehow, the adrenaline pounding through his system had a calming effect, allowing him to narrow his focus to exclude everything around him that was not Sherlock. He was used to high-stress situations and excelled at projecting a calm authority.

“‘Course I’m here,” he said steadily.

Sherlock swallowed and said nothing, but John could feel his doubt. He readjusted his position so that his lower back was settled more comfortably against the unyielding tile and cleared his throat. This time, he waited for Sherlock to look up. He had things that needed saying, and he’d put them off far too long. He had no way of knowing how they would be received, but he needed to know that Sherlock heard and understood,  _really_ understood, what he was about to say.

John’s heart gave a savage throb at the unbridled vulnerability reflected in Sherlock’s eyes. His uncertainty was a drastic change from his usual cold, arrogant façade, and the difference was impossible to ignore. He looked impossibly young and entirely unequipped for this situation. His gaze was almost pleading.

John smiled softly, knowing now what Sherlock needed and no longer afraid to say the words out loud.

“There are many things I want to say to you – have wanted to say for a long time now, but I never knew where to begin. After a while, I realized the futility of trying to keep anything from you and assumed you already knew. I imagined you’d figured it out from the way I folded the dish towels or the way I combed my hair. I see now how unfair that was.”

John took a deep breath and did not look away.

“There is nowhere else I would rather be, Sherlock. We could be at our flat or on the trail of a counterfeiter in Frankfurt or in a bloody rubbish skip in Brixton. It doesn’t matter to me so long as I get to be there with you.”

John’s throat was tight, but he forced his way through it. Now that he’d begun, he found that he was quite relieved. The words came more easily than he’d ever believed they might.

“Our lives are dangerous. The nature of the work that we do ensures that we will never be completely safe. That’s a risk I am well aware of and have chosen freely. I made a choice that first night to follow my nutter of a flatmate on a wild goose chase around London. I didn’t do it because it was easy or convenient, and I had no illusions about what I was getting myself into.”

Sherlock was shaking his head. “But John – “

John didn’t let him finish.

“No, Sherlock. I get that there are things about this that I don’t understand. There may even be parts of it that I can’t understand, but it doesn’t change my decision.”

John gathered his courage and let the words come.

“I want to be with you. No matter what. I want you to know that you can rely on me. I-I need you, Sherlock, and I think – or hope – that you just might need me too.”

“John,” Sherlock choked out before he wrapped John in his arms, pulling him in tightly. The man buried his face in John’s neck and breathed raggedly. It felt incredibly intimate to be held this way. John’s shirt grew damp with tears that went unremarked upon. He lifted his hand to run his fingers through his friend’s limp curls. The repetitive stroking and the hot humidity of the enclosed space overpowered Sherlock’s meticulous grooming habits, sending his hair into a sticky, steamy halo of frizz.

Sherlock’s lips shaped words that his voice failed to form, and it took John several long moments to figure out what was being murmured repeatedly into his neck.

“I can’t, I can’t, I can’t,” Sherlock whimpered softly.

John, unsure of what he meant, held him tighter. This seemed to reassure the man who pulled back slightly to look at him. His Adam’s apple bobbed quickly, and he seemed to struggle over several aborted sentences before making a decision. He fixed his unsteady but serious gaze on John and spoke.

“Forgive me, John,” he asked in a voice so deep it sent a bolt of arousal down John’s spine.

“I’ve hurt you. I know I have. I always know, but I can’t always tell how I’ve done it.” Sherlock leaned forward and whispered, like he was letting John in on a secret. “It guts me.”

At that moment, John realized that Sherlock was exposing his private thoughts. He was letting John glimpse the worlds of emotion that existed in the brilliant, usually inaccessible universe of Sherlock’s mind.

“I’ve only been trying to put you first, to keep you from harm. Now, I realize I was acting on my own selfish impulses. I didn’t consider your feelings or opinion on the matter. I acted in the only way I could think of to keep you safely out of this mess. Upon reflection, I realize that was for my benefit because I could not imagine living in a world where you don’t exist.”

There were tear tracks on Sherlock’s cheeks and his complexion was a blotchy red mess, but his eyes were sharp and clear.

“I meant to build up my walls, push you away, give you the opportunity to move on and start a normal life. A life that isn’t always threatened by the spectre of violence and darkness and death. I meant to give you the chance to have the life that you deserve, but I failed. I failed you, John, and I keep on failing. I’m not strong enough or I’m too selfish. I guess in the end it amounts to the same thing if it bears the same result. I can’t stay away from you any longer.”

John gently stroked his finger along Sherlock’s high, sharp cheekbone.

“Then don’t.” 

Sherlock’s eyes flickered closed and his lips were drawn in resignation. His hands tightened like vices around John’s biceps. 

“When you said you want to be with me…” he trailed off unable to voice the rest of the question. Despite the lack of communication, John understood perfectly. He leaned in painfully slowly, telegraphing his intention and letting Sherlock recoil if he wanted.

John planted a soft kiss on Sherlock’s cheek. “I want to be  _with_ you. I want the flat to be  _our_ flat. I want the work to be  _our_ work. I want to be  _yours_ and I want you to be  _mine._ I want it to be a foregone conclusion that where one of us goes, the other will follow. I want all of my days, all of my plans, the entirety of my future to be entwined with yours.”

John’s eyes filled but no tears fell. He had no idea if Sherlock would want the same from him, but he could not remember ever feeling this free.

“I want that too,” Sherlock replied.

John was buoyed by the response, but he sensed that the man was still holding something back.

“But?” he prompted when it seemed as though Sherlock was not going to continue.

“I want that with you, John. I just – I can’t…” he swallowed and his eyes widened in panic. “I’m not…good. There are things I don’t know how to give you. What I mean is that you deserve so much better than what I am.”

John’s heart broke to hear Sherlock talk that way, but he needed to understand where the man was coming from.

“And what are you, Sherlock?” he asked, trying to keep his voice gentle and calm.

“Broken.”

The answer was abrupt and harsh. Sherlock jerked out of John’s embrace and withdrew from all physical contact. A mix of embarrassment and heated anger was forcing a red blush up his neck. He paced wildly in front of John who was still slumped on the ground in astonishment.

“I’m all wrong!” He bellowed, ruffling his riotous hair. “I can’t undo what’s been done, and I’ll never be right. Don’t you understand? I can’t be what you need. I can’t do what you’re supposed to do when you’re, you know…” he fished for the right word, not quite finding it. “We can’t be together. I mean we can’t be  _together_ together.” 

John, blinking out of his shock, found his voice.

“Sherlock,” he called just loud enough to break through the man’s fugue-like monologue. Sherlock stopped pacing and looked at him with exasperation and weariness.

“To be clear, are you talking about the physical aspects of a relationship?” John asked, his cheeks growing pink. He knew it was awkward phrasing, but he couldn’t think of a more sensitive way to put it that wouldn’t come across as horrifically cliché.

Sherlock nodded tersely.

“Ok,” John said, buying time and processing this piece of information.

“Ok?” Sherlock exclaimed. “OK!? No, John. It is not  _ok_.” His voice dripped with disdain at the very notion. “It is very far from ok.”

“Alright,” John soothed. “Will you stop pacing around like a caged tiger and talk to me? I want to understand.”

The detective yielded with poor grace and sat where he was in the middle of the floor.

“Now,” John started, “I know neither of us is very good at this sort of thing, but I think it needs to be said. I don’t want there to be any more misunderstandings.”

Sherlock nodded, and John was encouraged.

“So, you said that you can’t be with me…um, physically. And that it’s not ok?”

Sherlock nodded in frustration.

“Right. Well there is a big difference between wanting and doing, at least in my experience, so I have to ask. Do you want to be,” John swallowed heavily, “ physical…um, with me?”

Sherlock looked apprehensive. “Yes,” he rumbled softly.

“Good. Then, is it a physiological issue. I mean, can you not - ?” John gestured at his groin, trying to convey the question without embarrassing Sherlock.

He blushed furiously despite John’s caution. “No!” he said a little too loudly. “No, it’s nothing like that. I,” Sherlock hesitated. 

“So, you do want to and it’s not a medical issue. That’s good to know, Sherlock. Thank you for telling me.”

John wracked his brain for a new line of questioning, but he couldn’t imagine what in the world Sherlock was trying to tell him. “Is it…Is there someone else?” he asked, already knowing that Sherlock would scoff at the prospect. 

But the man remained eerily silent. John’s heart dropped as he contemplated the idea of Sherlock having a boyfriend he did not know about. Had he missed his opportunity without even knowing it was an option?

Sherlock saved him from spiraling too far. “Not as such,” he sighed. “It’s complicated, and I’ve never had to explain it before.”

John’s face crumpled at the implied rejection. Sherlock, dismayed, hurried to reassure him. “I’m not saying that I won’t explain, just give me a minute to figure out…”

Suddenly, John remembered his conversation with Mycroft and the photograph.

“Is this to do with James Moriarty?” he asked.

Sherlock looked stricken. The color drained from his face and he seemed to shrink into himself.

“How did you – where did you hear that name?” he gasped.

John, treading lightly, answered truthfully. “Mycroft may have mentioned him on the way up here." 

Anger flashed across Sherlock’s face at the mention of his brother.

“Of course,” he growled. “Leave it to that insufferable, interfering, overblown desk-jockey to stick his fat nose in where it doesn’t belong.”

Sensing that the situation was once again escalating out of their control, John shut it down. 

“Listen, this is clearly a sensitive topic that you don’t particularly want to discuss. I can respect that, but I do hope that you’ll tell me one day. I trust you to clue me in to what I need to know when I need to know it. As for the rest of it, we’ll just have to figure it out together, alright?”

Sherlock’s face softened, and John could see him beginning to give himself over to the idea.

“I want us to be together always. Everything else, the _details_ , are all negotiable. We’ll navigate them as they come. So long as we both agree to try and communicate when we want something, or when we don’t want something,” he added hastily, “we should be alright.”

“That’s hardly fair to you, John,” Sherlock interrupted. “You like all those things, and I don’t know how much of it I can commit to giving you.”

“Sherlock,” John said seriously. “If we spend the rest of our lives chasing criminals and eating Chinese take-out on the couch at three a.m., I will be the happiest bastard alive.”

“John.”

John teetered dangerously on the edge of tears as Sherlock’s chin wavered. The skin at the bridge of his nose crinkled in consternation as he stared at John.

“I don’t have a frame of reference for this, John.” Sherlock’s voice turned plaintive and a little manic. “Please, you have to tell me what you need.”

“Can I hold your hand?” John asked, reaching into the space between them. Sherlock paused before stretching forward to clasp John’s hand with his own. He wove their fingers together and gripped hard. John beamed up at him. 

“This,” he whispered. “This is all I need.”

**Author's Note:**

> Questions, concerns, suggestions? Come squawk with/at me on Tumblr (@daringlydomestic)! I'd honestly love to hear from you. Cheers!


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